An Illegal Affection
by ProdigiousGirl
Summary: Set in 1720s London, Arthur, a new law graduate, is robbed on the street. After being dragged into a crime fighters society he runs into Francis, a travelling Frenchman. The two develop a rather unusual and illegal relationship. Plot with some smut.
1. Life in London

An Illegal Affection

A/N: The dates DO NOT in any way match up. Jonathan Wild and Charles Hitchens were arrested in different years (Wild- February 1725; executed May 1725 / Hitchens – died of injuries on the pillars in 1727) and the story as I've written it takes place in late October – early November in the mid-1720s. I just wanted to give a general description of the times – learned this stuff in university…might as well use it for something. Most things, in terms of culture and history, are more-or-less factual. Some things may have been manipulated a little bit, but generally everything presented is plausible for 1720s London. If you're curious about something PM me.

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><p>Chapter One: Life in London<p>

Arthur shuffled down the cobble street squeezing past the numerous figures in the crowd. It was a gloomy day in London and the ground was still wet after three days of non-stop rain. He was on his way to the city baker to buy some black bread. The baker was located on the eastern side of the London Bridge. He entered it watching carts and travellers moving inward from the left side of the bridge, and those leaving the city on right. It was a fairly new rule, passed in 1722, that had been established in order to control overcrowding. The old and rather wealthy coots in Parliament were always debating whether there should be shops at all on the bridge. Arthur detested the idea of having to use Graham McKennen's bakery three streets away. The Irishman was a loud talker who had been caught accidentally spitting into this customer's bread. The blond gentleman of Great Britain, still a fairly new name given to the recently ordained country born out of the merge between England, Wales and Scotland in 1707, shuddered as he wrapped his thick, wool coat around him. It was not yet winter but the temperature was already predicting nature would send them a rather terrible one.

Arthur opened the door, trying to get inside without the cool wind following him. A small gust managed to get inside, but did not affect him for long as the stove kept the baker's store warm.

"Good morning to ya, Mr. Kirkland," a plump, red haired man grinned, "Here for your bread, sir?"

"Yes." The emerald eyed, young man nodded.

"And how is that house of yours, sir? Have you fixed the roof yet?"

Arthur grumbled. The house he inhabited had been destroyed in the London Fire of 1666. It had been rebuilt in hast and was meant to be temporary but with the expanding population of London more money had to be put into creating homes than fixing them. The fire was sixty years since ago and still London was suffering from it.

"Well," The baker placed the wrapped bread on the counter, "That'll be two shillings, please."

The young Englishman picked up the bread, placing the two silver coins on the table. "Don't suppose you also have a couple bottles of gin, do you?"

The baker laughed, "You'll have to go to the tavern for that…or find a dealer."

Arthur sighed, "I suppose I shall. Though I can't say that I'm looking forward to fighting the crowd."

"I don't blame you," The baker wrinkled his nose, "Most of 'em out there are scum. Dirty rats who throw their filth into the street, shittin' everywhere regardless of who's lookin'."

"And what else are they supposed to do? Not everyone has the luxury of owning an Ajax." Arthur stared, referring to John Harington's 1596 invention of the flushing toilet, the Ajax, pronounced a-jakes.

"I believe they're calling it the toilet now." A hearty laugh was given by the plump man.

Arthur snubbed, "Just because the French are calling it one thing, doesn't mean we have to do the same."

"Well then…off with ya!" The baker smirked, "Good luck findin' that gin!"

Arthur smiled before tucking the bread into his coat. Truthfully it would not be hard at all to find gin, since practically everyone was selling it everywhere. The problem was finding good quality gin. Most people were drinking the alcohol because water was foul and full of diseases and excrement. He looked to his left and right waiting for the right time to jump into the mob of people. If he blended with them too quickly he'd be swept away in the wrong direction.

Eyeing his chance he dashed along the crowd moving into the city and jumped into the line of people moving out. He hated having to travel farther away from the city but if it meant having a few bottles of good gin then he supposed it was worth it.

Edward Sackville's tavern was just beyond the bridge. It was a filthy world, filthier even than the bridge. The dark alleyways were filled with prostitutes and beggars, all using dirty tricks to get a hold of one's hard earned coins. He ignored them the best he could, pulling open the door and throwing himself inside.

"Mr. Sackville," He started, though his voice was easily drowned out in the sea of loud, boisterous middle-aged men. They were all rambling on about their lives, wives, mistresses, philosophy (if you could call it that) and anything else they wanted to say in the moment.

Arthur moved towards the bar, raising his voice, "Mr. Sackville,"

A thin, bearded man, with jet black hair and matching eyes turned to the call of his name, "Ah, Artie! Here for some gin!"

"I do believe that is the only reason I frequent your establishment, is it not?"

The tavern owner slammed his hand on the counter, "I swear by God, you're going to end up old, wrinkly and alone if you keep up this attitude."

"Maybe he's one of them queers!" A voice came from the crowd.

Arthur snapped his head at the voice in disgust. It was Tom Brick, a general labourer who carried coal into the city. He was a fat man in his mid-thirties, with a seamstress for a wife, a dumb son, and a seemingly mute daughter. It always amazed Arthur that this man could even be in the type of work that he was considering his heavy frame. His less than intelligent son worked alongside him – it was he who was probably doing the workload for the both of them.

"I hope you're not suggesting I'm in league with those so-called mollies." Arthur stared the man down.

"Well, you're what?" The fat man smirked, "Twenty-four? Twenty-five?"

"Twenty-three." Arthur narrowed his eyes.

"Old enough to have a wife, aren't you? Or at least a lover."

"Hardly." Arthur turned his attention back to Edward in hopes that Tom would go back to whatever he'd been doing.

"Now, now, Tom." Edward took the hint, "Artie's not an old man quite yet. I'm sure he'll do fine."

Arthur gave a sly twist of his lips, "that's funny. Only a minute ago you were saying I'd die a lonely man if I kept up this "attitude"."

"And I meant it." Ed pulled out three bottles of gin.

Pulling out a small handful of shillings from his coat the young Englishman frowned, "You know they want to start taxing gin now."

"So I've heard." Ed collected the coins, "Fifty pounds is a lot to pay for a license. All because of that loud mouth Henry Fielding."

"The Fielding brothers," Arthur gathered the bottles of gin, "and their Bow Street Runners. Can't say I dislike them, Lord knows London needs to be cleaned up, but some suggestions of theirs seem rather impossible."

"More like stupid." Ed corrected his young client, "For most of the men gin is really all we've got. Shitty jobs, shitty water, shitty life…we need something comforting in this world."

"Yes, well, cheerio." Arthur waved and walked out of the tavern. He stopped to stare at the bridge before taking in a deep breath, a breath he wished he hadn't as someone had recently dropped a bucket of manure a few buildings away, and stepped onto the bridge.

He wiggled his way onto the side where traffic was flowing towards the city. He let the rift carry him to the other side. Reaching the end he scuttled out of the crowd and hustled home.

He was not two blocks away from his dwelling when a man came running up beside him and knocked him over. Arthur cursed at the robust but unclean man while he got to his feet. He shoved his hands into his pocket only to discover his bread and one of his gin bottles were missing. Arthur whipped himself around, "Thief!"

The man took off at full speed. To be a thief in Great Britain in the 18th century could mean death. Arthur managed to keep pace for a few streets before he lost the man in a dark alleyway. He spit on the ground thinking he'd now have to hire a thief taker, a person he'd rather not talk to. Thief takers had bad reputations, almost as bad as the thieves they were catching. A lot of them were con-artists, setting up thefts to cash in on the reward profits. Arthur wondered if he had just become a pawn in a thief takers game.

There was another option though, the Fielding brothers. Not but forty minutes ago was he chastising their style of mannerism and now he had to call on them for assistance. Emitting a small growl he turned on his heels and headed for the magistrate's office.

Before he could take two steps he was approached by a classy looking gentleman. This man was clearly well-to-do with a tricorne hat and fine greyish blue petticoat. He carried a rather fancy cane, which Arthur quickly surmised was a swordstick, a blade hidden inside of a decorative walking cane.

"I saw what that fellow did to you." The man spoke in a hoarse voice as he got closer.

"Really?" Arthur was suspicious, "because I ran all the way here from a far distance."

"I know," The man responded, "And I followed in my coach."

Arthur followed the man's gesture to a red trimmed coach with two thoroughbred, brown horses attached to it.

"Come," said the man, tapping his square-toed shoes, "we must report this incident at once."

Arthur paused not sure if he should join the man. Why on earth would such a wealthy person be interested in helping him? Arthur wasn't a poor man, but he wasn't rich either. He was part of the growing middle class whose grandparents and great-grandparents had worked tirelessly to create a small fortune from building their trade shops. Arthur's father was a lawyer who was university educated, but after upsetting the general attorney had been sent away to the countryside. Arthur had chosen to remain in London and finish his own schooling at Oxford, where he wished to also dabble in law.

The gentleman, in his late forties or perhaps early fifties, crossed his arms looking rather vexed, "Well? What say you boy? Are you coming or not?"

Arthur snapped out of his daze, "Oh, yes sir."

Arthur returned to the main street where the carriage was waiting at the edge of the alleyway they were in. He got in and introduced himself.

"Arthur Kirkland, is it? My name is John Gonson, Sir John Gonson."

Arthur's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. The Mr. Gonson! The Justice of the Peace and Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for the City of Westminster! Arthur was both freighted and honoured all at once.

"I take it by your reaction you've heard of me."

"Yes sir, I believe all of London, if not England, has."

Gonson laughed, "All the better. Then perhaps our message will finally get across this wretched city."

"Message?" Arthur was intrigued.

"The message of the Society for Reformation of Manners. Are you familiar with us?"

"To be honest no, but I have heard things."

"Such as?"

Arthur fidgeted and tried to keep himself from sweating. All that he had heard of the society was that they forced their beliefs of a perfect society on the poor and twisted words and ideas to put away those who opposed them. They were responsible for trying to destroy the selling of gin, believing it to be the cause of vice, and brutally attacked anyone thought to be involved in lewd activities.

"Such as…your campaign against drunkenness and debauchery, sir."

It was then that Arthur remembered he was still carrying two bottles of gin concealed in his coat. He put on a strong face, concerned about what could happen to him if he were caught with them.

Gonson seemed to have read his mind, "I already saw the gin, boy. I saw it when the man took off with your bread."

Arthur tried to stumble out a half-assed excuse about not being a heavy drinker but only occasionally enjoying a glass when he was cut off, "I've seen you around the Old Bailey."

It was true; Arthur did frequent the Old Bailey. He was very interested in the trials and how barristers would manipulate the law on behalf of their clients. The clients were usually the prosecutors as most refused to defend the accused. This had always unsettled Arthur who couldn't help but feel that innocent souls were being sent to the gallows, pillars, or transported away for simply catching the eye of the wrong person. He intended to do something about it one day. His biggest foe however had always been his lack of confidence. As much as he tried he always got sucked into doing whatever society demanded.

"Well, here we are." Gonson leaned over to get out of the carriage.

Arthur followed and stared at the enormous mansion before him. They were not at the magistrate's as Gonson had promised, but rather his personal estate. "Um… Mr…Mr. Gonson, sir."

"I know you were expecting the magistrate's, son." Gonson turned and stared into Arthur's emerald eyes, "But I have something better in mind. You'll catch your criminal…but you'll get a whole lot more than that."

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><p>Next time Francis shows up! = D<p> 


	2. The Society for Reformation of Manners

Chapter Two: The Society for Reformation of Manners

A/N: HEY GUYS! Before we jump into this chapter I want to discuss something VERY important. The topic? French. I've noticed (irritably) that many people tend to use "vous" and its conjugations when France speaks. Please understand that "vous" is a formal way of saying "you". France **WOULD NOT** use the subject "vous" to speak to England, Canada, America or any other nation he deals with on a regular basis. When France is talking to these nations (the common ones being the aforementioned) he will use the subject "tu". It is the informal (relaxed, casual, familiar) way of saying "you". Many of us know the phrase "Je t'aime." (I love you). Ever wonder what the "t'" is for? It stands for "tu".

If you are doing an Alternate Universe fic, as this one is, and you have Francis and Arthur meeting for the first time, as they are in this chapter, than using vous (as has been done) is appropriate. But once they become acquainted with each other you should immediate switch to "tu". That being said, when translating sentences (which you SHOULD NOT be using Goggle Translate for; try how to sayin .com, french. about. com, yahoo ask or other translation forums) be sure to swap out "vous" for "tu" and add the appropriate verb conjugation. Ex. Vous êtes aller à la maison (you are going to the house)? Changes to: Tu es aller à la maison? OR make it reflexive: Es-tu aller à la maison?

XD To save your brain from exploding I won't go into reflexive verbs.

*Take the spaces out of the web addresses or just google them.

Sorry for the lecture...now to the story:

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><p>Arthur stared up the grand estate. It was one of the largest houses he had ever seen, and would certainly be the largest house he had ever had the privilege of entering. He followed Sir John inside.<p>

Upon entering a formal dining room he was greeted by a dozen of other guests. Most were upperclassman like Gonson, working in the law or government.

Gonson gestured Arthur to sit down at one of the seats near the end of the table. Arthur obliged.

The men, and some women, sat at the long, rectangular table littered with fine silverware and crystal wine glasses. Most of the guests were chatting away about shopping, artwork and personal advancements and the hefty salaries that went with them.

Gonson stood, grabbing the attention of all those present. "Good afternoon gentlemen,"

Arthur quickly stared at his watch. Indeed it was the afternoon now, just a little past twelve.

"I would like to call this meeting of the Society for Reformation of Manners to start. First order of business is the raid on the Molly House on James Street. Three men were successfully caught and rightfully placed in the pillar."

The guests cheered and Arthur stared blankly at their satisfaction. He was no fan of the Molly Houses but was still rather cautious of this rambunctious group.

"We've also made some improvement on our push to destroy the gin market. Parliament is considering passing an act to tax the sale of gin."

The group cheered again and Arthur dared to wonder why. This was fairly common knowledge, he had found out days ago.

"Lastly," Gonson's voice became more direct and serious, "Our new young friend here has been robbed and I'd like to think a thief taker was behind it."

Arthur had thought the same thing, but now that someone had said it aloud he was doubting the idea. He stayed quiet and allowed the Justice of the Peace to continue.

"I saw the act myself. The man who robbed him looked an awful lot like one of Wild's men!"

One of the guests, an old man in his sixties jumped up, "Do you suppose Jonathan Wild is behind it!"

Another guest jumped up, "Are you sure? It could've been Hitchen!"

"Yes, yes." Gonson rubbed his chin, "I guess it could've been. Either one will do."

Arthur couldn't believe what he was hearing. Either one will do? It seemed as though his robbery was a convenience for this troupe to go thief-taker hunting. It didn't matter if they caught the right man so long as they caught the man they wanted. Arthur stood up,

"I'm sorry but –"

"But what?" Gonson looked at him.

Arthur could feel the sweat coming on again. He rubbed it off his thick eyebrows and held himself back from shaking.

Gonson repeated his question more sternly.

"N-nothing." Arthur sat back down. He wanted to protest but what could he say? Even more daunting was the fact that Gonson had seen him with gin. If a law were to be passed what would stop the Winchester Chairman from taxing him? Perhaps if Arthur stayed in their good grace he would be spared the taxes and would even gain considerable advancements in his career. He loathed the thought since he admired honesty but those who angered the high-ups tended to find themselves in places they'd rather not be. Like his father…

"Good," Gonson smiled, "We'll set out this evening to find the bastards and drag them to Newgate!"

Arthur released a heavy sigh as he exited the estate. He would head home and rest before meeting with his new "group of friends" at the rendezvous point.

"Oh! Excusé moi!" A rather enthusiastic voiced called out to him.

Arthur looked over and raised an eyebrow of intrigue. This robust young man came frolicking, yes frolicking, down the road waving wildly, two luggage bags in his hands, his long blond hair bouncing with each step.

When the young man, who could not have been much older than Arthur, stopped in front of him he panted momentarily catching his breath, then looked into Arthur's green eyes with his own shimmering blue ones.

"Pardon moi but…would you happen to know where a local inn is?"

Arthur's face twisted in disgust. He was French. Arthur, like many Englishman, hated the French. However, a tourist was a tourist and he was obligated to do something. He'd rather that something were to push the Frenchman off the London Bridge, or at least lose him there, but a little voice inside him told him that was impolite.

He sighed heavily, showing his distaste, "Very well."

"Excellente!" The Frenchman beamed with joy.

The only thing worse than that was –

"I'm Francis! Francis Bonnefoy! Comment vous appelez-vous?"

THAT. There was nothing worse than that. Arthur was rather reluctant to give his name. He didn't know much French but he knew enough to understand what the Frenchman had been asking. Instead of being rude he simply decided to ignore the question.

"Hey!" Francis frowned, "I asked a question. Did you ne comprenez-pas?"

Arthur glared, "Again with the French. You're in England. Speak English please."

Francis sadly shifted his gaze down, "Yes, I will try that."

"And for the record," Arthur added, "I understood quite well what you were asking. I simply chose not to answer."

"Why is that?"

"Because," Arthur looked away.

"Is it because you have an ugly name?"

Arthur looked back dumbfounded. "Excuse me?"

Francis laughed, "That is ok. Most Englishmen have ugly names, I understand."

Glaring hard the Brit spoke, "Arthur. My name is Arthur. You'll get no surname though."

"Ar-tur is fine."

Arthur gawked. He felt uneasy and insulted by the way Francis had said his name, "No, not 'artur', Arthur. With a "th" in there."

"But I don't say it that way."

"Well that's how it's pronounced so that's how it should be said."

"But I can't. We don't have that sound en français."

"Again with the French!" Arthur raised his voice in anger, "And what do you mean you don't have that sound? Don't you have T.H. in any of your words!"

"Many."

"Then how can you not say it!"

"Because," Francis started at him, "They are all silent. We pronounced the T but not the H. In bibliotheque, it's tech, not theck."

Arthur frowned at being lectured but at least Francis had made the effort to try to pronounce the 'th' when explaining his vocabulary.

The two stared at each other quietly for a moment before Francis inquired again about the inn.

"Oh, right." Arthur stuttered before collecting himself and leading the way. He had thought about taking the Frenchman to an inn on the other side of the borough he lived in, just to be as far away from the traveller as possible, but decided he was too tired to make the effort. The looming night ahead just made his day even worse.

The two reached the quiet inn, Francis talking the whole way. Arthur had learned a lot about this traveller, not that he cared to, while walking ahead of him. He was the son of a wealthy French aristocrat and had a particular love for French theatre. He was being financed by his father to go on a "grand tour" of Europe. Arthur wondered why he'd bother visiting England but didn't want to strike up another conversation so he dropped the issue in his mind.

"This is the inn." Arthur said plainly pointing to the building. It was neither run down, nor well kept. The look on Francis' face showed displeasure but also zeal. The expression said, 'this isn't what I'm accommodated to but I'm on an adventure and am willing to try anything!'

"Well, this is where we part ways." Arthur turned and quickly moved away.

"Merci Artur!" The voice shouted loudly, so all could hear.

Arthur cringed, not only did he shout in French, but he said his name wrong…again.

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><p>Arthur headed to a small church a few blocks away from Arthur's home. It was the meeting place of the Society for Reformation of Manners. He still felt extremely uncomfortable being with these people but he was too far involved to simply walk out.<p>

When the last of the group had arrived they planned out their move. Charles Hitchen, one of the thief-takers they were targeting, was hiding out in a run-down building not too far away from where Arthur lived. The group decided to simply invade the place, but only after it was confirmed beyond a doubt that Hitchens was in the building at the moment they were set to walk in.

The informants returned with positive news. Not only was Hitchens in attendance but he was also rather intoxicated. This meant he wouldn't be able to put up much of a fight. The informant also delegated information about Hitchen being in the company of other men.

"So that damnable Upper City Marshal is also a sodomizer!" Gonson cried out. "I swear by God he'll hang for it!"

The Society gathered their weapons, some with pistols and others with swordcanes and Arthur with nothing at all – he had no money for such fancy tools, it was all directed towards his education and living costs. They marched down the streets, everyone before them moving out of the way. Gonson paraded in front with a torch lamp guiding the way. The leader pushed open the door and bellowed out, frightening all those inside,

"I hereby arrest Charles Hitchen on account of theft!"

Arthur looked around and noticed a shadowy figure taking off via the back of the building – which was now clearly identified as a brothel by all the half-naked prostitutes fleeing the scene.

"There!" He shouted and pointed to the disappearing man. Arthur was so caught up in the intensity of the moment that he hadn't even thought to why he pointed the escaping man out. As dodgy as the figure looked, Arthur did not feel like he was the one responsible for his stolen bread and gin.

He watched the Society members chase after the man. In their hast they knocked over the lamp and its glass case shattered after hitting the floor. The room was full of wooden furniture which was easily flammable and the first floor was beginning to smoke. Flames rushed up the side of tables and chairs and engulfed the room in a red-orange blaze.

Arthur fled to the front of the building and exited the main door. He turned to see window's breaking and people on the streets panicking. He too was in a panic, worrying that another great fire would dissolve the city once again.

People were rushing out of their homes and other buildings nearby with buckets of water and other liquids, hoping to tame the fire. Some liquids, those that were alcohol, made the flames worse, but water and urine were working to smother the intense inferno.

Arthur watched in horror as the dancing flames spread from building to building. It set itself upon a familiar structure, one that the Brit had seen recently. The inn!

Looking around at the crowd in front of the hostel he spotted the Frenchman, who seemed equally horrified.

Not knowing why, Arthur made his way over. It was in times like these that being near someone, anyone, that you knew was comforting.

"Artur!" The Frenchman noticed the Brit out of the corner of his eye, "My things are inside there! They are burning!"

Francis looked greatly distressed and Arthur found himself feeling rather guilty. He dared not to speak a word but watched as the conflagration enveloped the entire building. By the time the newly invented fire cart arrived, the inn, brothel and two other buildings were nearly reduced to ash.

The Frenchman sat on the curb, looking disappointed and lost. He stared with dead eyes at the cobble street before him.

"Francis?" Arthur watched him.

"What do I do, Artur?" France questioned, continuing his wounded gape.

Normally Arthur would be livid at the mispronunciation of his name, again, but he found himself more sympathetic. He hadn't the slightest clue what would make him respond this way but…he found himself suggestion the most uncharacteristic idea of his life. "I suppose you could stay with me…"

It was absolute madness, but that didn't seem to stop Francis from leaping with joy and embracing the Brit.

Arthur quickly looked around to make sure none of the Society members were present, lest they assume incorrectly about the nature of the hug. He frowned inside feeling like somehow this would lead him down a terrible path.

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><p>End Note: I don't normally pressure for reviews, but it'd be nice if you'd leave one. As fellow authors I'm sure you know all about the time and effort one puts into their stories and how much a review (no matter how simple it is) means. So please review…it's be nice if you did.<p> 


	3. Living With My Enemy

Chapter Three: Living With My Enemy

A/N: Should've mentioned this before if I didn't but the smut stuff won't even begin to start until chapter five. Hope you can wait that long. In addition to that I will probably be updating every two to three days since the whole story is already written…it just needs to be posted. I have a bad habit of posting first chapters and then getting lost in a new idea SO I actually sat down and wrote this one out before posting. It took a whole month! Enjoy!

If there are any grammar mistakes (I know I've caught a few here and there) don't hesitate to point them out to me. Oh, and before you point out the whole _Francis'_ thing I should mention that that is the "American/Sometimes Canadian" way of spelling it. Typing _Francis's_ is also acceptable. That would be the British/Australian/New Zealand/Sometimes Canadian way of spelling it. XD We Canadians have a mixture of spelling... "favourite with a U, realize with a Z". But either form is accepted here (U, no U, Z, S, whatever). We're flexible people.

Oh, and if you're curious about the tub...Arthur just draws water from some invisible well I neglected to mention and puts it in his bath. I dunno...they did have running water but it was kinda gross...most of it was through old, hollowed out tree trunks and was meant for rainwater. If you want to learn more about that (and the gin craze that I wrote about in chapter one) you can type in: PBS, Water & Waste, London into Goggle and click on the PBS website. XD If you get a headtitle that has something to do with Sweeney Todd you're in the right place. LOL!

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><p>Arthur opened the door to his flat with Francis following behind. It was a simple dwelling with two rooms, a main room with a bed and desk and a bathroom with nothing but a tub and a closet where the Brit kept his cloths.<p>

"I'll push the tub to the far wall and find some blankets to put on the floor." He said taking off his coat, lying it on his bed, "That'll be your room."

Francis peaked into the room that would be his, "This is a rather…cozy place, Artur."

Arthur grumbled at the mispronunciation of his name but ignored it, feeling too tired to bicker.

Francis stood and stared as Arthur leaned back onto his bed and rolled over facing the wall, "Um…"

"What?" The Englishman closed his eyes.

"Aren't you going to move the tub?"

Arthur had planned on doing that the next day since it was nearly 1 am, but he realized that Francis would have nowhere to sleep if he didn't. Grunting, he pushed himself up off the bed and lazily made his way towards the other room. He mustered up his strength and pushed the tub to the far side then returned to his bed.

"…And the blankets?" Francis blinked.

"Can't you just sleep on your coat tonight?" Arthur replied, but in truth he didn't have extra blankets. The only ones that he did have were already on his bed. He was rather sensitive to the cold and had decided to bring the blankets out for his own use a few weeks ago.

Arthur didn't have to see the look on the Frenchman's face to know he was smiling, "Perhaps I should sleep with you then. …In your bed."

Arthur's eyes shot open. There was no way he was going to share a bed with someone he just met, and a person from his most hated country at that. Pulling himself up again he ripped off one of the blankets on his bed and tossed it to Francis. He'd rather freeze for the night than huddle with this strange fellow, "Here."

"_Merci_." Francis carried the cotton sheet to the other room.

"And shut the door, please." Arthur called after him. He felt satisfied when he heard a click.

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><p>Arthur wrinkled his face as the light from the sun shone through the window of his apartment. He slowly opened his eyes and stretched feeling some of his muscles twitch. Sitting up he looked over at the door of what was his bathroom. It was still closed. Arthur lifted his legs and swung them over the side of the bed, stood up and crossed the floor, knocking on the wooden door. There was no answer.<p>

"Francis?" Arthur called out in a rather shy voice. No response came.

Sighing, Arthur opened the door to see the tub back in its proper position and the blanket folded neatly hanging off the side. There was no sign of Francis.

"Where the devil did he go?" Arthur whispered to himself aloud.

Before he could even begin to imagine up scenarios that might explain the Frenchman's absence, the door to his flat swung open. The sudden noise of the door hitting the wall as it pushed open all the way made the Brit jump out of his skin.

"Good Morning Artur!" Francis' face glowed as he skipped in. He was carrying a weaved basket with bread and cheese in it.

Arthur stared at the food. He could feel his stomach grumbling though luckily no sounds were emitted. "Did you buy that this morning?"

"I did!" Francis replied cheerfully, "Do you want some?"

Arthur stared with caution, "Why?"

"Well," Francis looked up at him, holding a piece of cheese, "It's the least I can do since you're letting me stay here rent free."

"Rent free?" Arthur raised a brow, "Who said I was letting you stay rent free?"

Francis looked at his new roommate and frowned, "You're not? I thought you invited me. That means it's rent free, does it not?"

Arthur rolled his eyes but said nothing. He supposed that as long as Francis continued to provide quality food – cheese and white bread was far from cheap, than he could stay 'rent free'.

Francis walked over to the desk in front of the window and sat on the chair facing away from the invading sunlight. "I was hoping you would show me around the city today. I am here on vacation after all."

Arthur pouted. He did not like the idea of wandering the streets with a Frenchman, lest it ruin his budding reputation. He had only recently finished his education and was now looking for an experienced lawyer to take him on as an apprentice.

"Didn't you already see enough of the city yesterday? You also went to the market this morning, did you not?"

"Yes, but there's so much to see Artur! I was hoping you'd show off your supposedly wonderful city to me."

Arthur glared, "What do you mean _supposedly_ wonderful?"

"Well," Francis started, "The people of Paris think London is a rather dirty sub-par place. Paris is, after all, the only true city of Europe. The rest of this continent is a mere suburb around us."

Arthur gritted his teeth. Francis' words were unconvincing and yet there was some truth to them. The people of England yearned for French silks, porcelain, mirrors, clocks and all the rest. However, they were required to swallow their desires since France was the only real economic and diplomatic threat to Great Britain.

Francis could see Arthur seething, "I bring this up because I am giving you an opportunity to prove them wrong."

Arthur bellowed out a growl before biting into the white bread. After chewing and swallowing he agreed to take Francis on one condition, "You don't utter a word. The last thing I want is for people to think I'm friendly to the French. You DO know our countries are enemies, right?"

Francis grinned, "I am well aware. That's why I came. I wanted to see what made this country so detestable in the first place. It's hard to hate something when you know little about it, non?"

Arthur refused to answer. He headed into the bathroom and shut the door to get changed. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

><p>The two Europeans casually wandered down the street. They crossed a variety of stores before one shop caught Francis' eye.<p>

"Artur! Let's go in there!" Francis grabbed Arthur's arm and pointed at a townhouse shop with the sign _The Wax Work_ on it.

Arthur immediately snapped, "What did I tell you about speaking!"

The Parisian gave a heartbroken look but remained silent.

Arthur sighed, "Alright, fine. We'll take a peak."

They crossed the street and entered the shop. Inside was an elaborate display of wax scenes from historical battles with the signature figures accompanying them.

"Ah," The Brit placed a hand on the wax image of Queen Elizabeth I, "It's like a wax museum."

He wandered off towards the back of the museum. In one corner of the store a miniature display of the Battle of Hastings was being played out on a frozen stage. Arthur stared at it momentarily unsure of his feelings towards it. On one hand he admired it because it was, essentially, the birth of his country, but on another level he despised it feeling pity for the Englishman who would be subjected under a foreign king, one Guillaume de Normandy, or William the Conqueror.

His thoughts were interrupted when he heard a short gasp come from his guest. He looked over to France who was looking rather shocked by one of the displays. Walking over Arthur saw the Frenchman gazing at a scene of the English and Burgundian armies burning Joan of Arc.

As Arthur approached Francis laughed, "I'm surprised people outside of France know her."

The Brit seemed sullen, "Yes. She's becoming rather popular, even here."

"Poor thing," France continued, "How on earth she managed to remain a virgin in the army is astonishing."

Arthur blinked in shock. This feared figure from his home country, a heroine in her own right, was displayed in glory before him by the nation who destroyed her out of fear and he was making a satire of it.

"Oh, hello." An old woman came out of the back room, "Browsing are you?"

"Oui-" Francis was cut short by Arthur's hand over his mouth.

"Yes, ma'am. They were rather interesting. Thank you for the educational displays." Arthur waved good-bye as he dragged Francis out the door. When they exited the building the Englishman turned to Francis and scowled, "Are you trying to get yourself into trouble?"

Francis blinked, "I don't see what the big deal is Anglais. You act like I'm the first and only Frenchman to visit your country. I'm more than positive I'm not the only person from France that is here. In fact, I know I'm not."

Arthur cocked his head in curiosity.

Francis continued, "Only a few months ago the writer, Voltaire, was sent away in exile here. I was actually hoping I'd run into him."

"Yes well," Arthur glanced away, concentrating on the people in the streets, "if he was exiled then perhaps it'd be better if you didn't see him. This city is a breeding ground for gossip. Word would certainly get back to France one way or another and you could be exiled yourself."

Arthur looked back in time to see a sincere smile on Francis' face.

"Well _merci_ for caring enough to tell me."

A slight blush crossed the Brit's face, "T-that's….not what I was getting at you damn frog! I just don't want you overstaying your welcome, that's all!"

Francis gave a low chuckle before turning on his heels and heading down the street, "Come Artur! There is still more to see!"

Arthur muttered under his breath and reluctantly followed.

"What else could we see? I hear London if full of strange things."

Once again the Frenchman seemed more informed than he appeared. London was home to numerous freak fests. For one penny you could gain entry to the infamous _Bethlem Royal Hospital_ to gawk at the mentally insane or take a gander at the dwarves and hermaphrodites at the freak circuses. There always seemed to be a show on display to distract Londoners from their horrid lives.

"Oh!" Francis spun around and grinned at Arthur, "Let's see a puppet show!"

Arthur raised one of his heavy eyebrows, "A puppet show? Why on earth would you want to see that?"

The Parisian shrugged, "I don't know…it just sounds interesting. I wonder if it can match our _Polichinelles_."

"I suppose we could find a nearby rendition of _Punch and Judy_."

Francis slapped his hands together, "_Bien_! Let us go! _Vite_!"

* * *

><p>"That's the way to do it!" The elaborate looking puppet shouted waving its silk hands.<p>

Francis clapped with the children sitting on the ground. He looked around him at all the smiling faces and it made him all the more excited.

Arthur however, was less amused. He had seen this play several times in his life and despite it always being somewhat different from the previous performances he'd become rather disillusioned with the story as a whole. The plot was seemingly basic to him: Mr. Punch is asked to watch the baby he has with Judy, but fails miserably. The puppet is threatened with jail time but ends up being interrupted by a series of characters showing up…almost all of whom seem to get beaten up by Mr. Punch. After he tricks the hangman into putting his own head in the noose the devil comes for him and is beaten up. End of story.

The Puppeteer came crawling out of his booth warranting more applause and cheers from the crowd. Many of the children got to their feet, their hands thunderously slamming into each other. Francis was also on his feet shouting "_Bravo_!"

Arthur twitched irritatingly. How many times would he have to warn the Frenchman about his language? Perhaps the Parisian simply didn't care. 'Oh well,' Arthur thought to himself, 'It he gets taken away that's his own fault, not mine.'

When Francis returned to his side he sighed, "Are we finished now?"

"Not quite," Francis winked, "There's still one more placed I'd like to visit but we cannot do so now, we must do it after dark."

Arthur narrowed his brows in confusion. What on earth could Francis want to see so late at night?

The two spend the rest of the afternoon and evening exploring the shops, sights and sounds of London. They visited the site of the Tower of London, scampered past the fairly new estate of the Duke of Buckingham, and stopped to admire Hampton Court where the British Royal family lived.

As the sun began to fade the two settled into a quiet coffeehouse for something quick to eat. Arthur enjoyed a plate of roast beef, which Francis found rather humorous, and the other had duck with French beans.

Francis poked his meal, "Is meat all you Englishman eat?"

Arthur looked up from his coffee, "Do you have a problem with that?"

The Parisian frowned, "Well I wouldn't if it had any taste. Not to mention the temperature. This meat is far too cold."

The Londoner glared putting his coffee down on the table. Instead of starting a quarrel in the café he decided to inquire about Francis' evening plan, "So where exactly are we going tonight?"

"It's a secret," Francis hummed in a singsong voice, checking his silver pocket watch, "We should get going though, since it should be open now."

Arthur was too entranced by the Frenchman's luxury watch; only the richest of the rich could afford one, to even hear what he said. He was jolted back to reality when Francis called his name,

"Artur," Francis blinked, "Are you ready?"

"Um," Arthur shuffled about, recollecting himself, "yes, let's get going shall we?"

Leaving their uneaten food, in particular Francis, on the table they stood up from their seats and exited the coffeehouse.

"That was rather interesting." Francis smiled as they walked down the street towards their final destination.

"How so?" inquired the Brit.

"Well," The Parisian started, "Nearly all the people in there were discussing politics. They were criticising the government and debating trials and such."

"What's so interesting about that?" Arthur questioned, looking at his guest unenthusiastically.

Francis raised an index finger, "Because, it's unheard of to do that in Paris. That is what I like about England; you're more…tolerant of open politics. That is not the case in France. We are open, yes, but to arts and crafts and luxury and romance; not politics. England feels more…democratic."

Arthur laughed, "I can't blame you for thinking that. After all you have that baboon, Louis, for a king."

"Yes," Francis sighed, "An absolute monarch is certainly more strict than one who shares power with an elected assembly."

Crossing a darkened street, with only a few oil lamps providing any light, the two crossed into a back alley. Coming out at the other end Francis pointed to a building with a single oil lamp in front of it.

"I was out this morning and inquired about it."

"About what?" Arthur looked him in the eye.

"The Molly Houses."

"THE WHAT!" Arthur screeched.

"Shhh," Francis placed a finger of the Brit's mouth. "Luckily, I bumped into the right person. It turns out he's a member of one and invited me to do my research there."

"Your…research?"

"Oui." Francis grinned, "I'm a writer too you know. Like Voltaire! Only he writes philosophy and I write La Libertine."

Arthur raised a brow, "La what?"

"La Libertine."

"And what's that?"

"Erotic novels!"

Arthur's jaw dropped. First, he had to become associated with the Society for Reformation of Manners, then he runs into a Frenchman whose inn burns down and in turn must live with him and now this. Oh but it could be worse, "Are you a sodomite?"

"If by sodomite you mean lover of men, then I suppose. But I am, truly, a lover of all things."

It just got worse. Arthur felt a chill down his spine. He wasn't just sharing a flat with a Frenchman, but a homosexual Frenchman who wrote sexual fantasies.

"Come now, let's go inside." Francis walked to the building with curtains over the windows to avoid any unwanted eyes.

"I…really don't want to." Arthur shuddered taking a few steps back.

Francis sighed. He walked over and grabbed Arthur's arm, "It's fine. They won't bite you. I'll make sure of it."

"You idiot," Arthur pulled away, "Sodomy is a capital offense! If we're caught in there we could be hanged!"

"Well if you keep screaming the whole world will know we're in there." Francis frowned. He turned on his heels, "Regardless, I'm going in. You can go home if you want. I'll see you tomorrow."

The Brit watched his roommate disappear into the bawdy establishment and it made him worry even more. If the place was raided and Francis was taken to Newgate he could easily become targeted. The best he could do at this point was enter the Molly House and keep an eye out for the authorities – in particular his own group the Society for Reformation of Manners, who especially sought the destruction of these houses of sin. Clenching his fist and stomping the ground, Arthur made his way over to the brick structure and went inside.

Out of another alleyway dark, narrow eyes watched the Englishman open and close the door behind him. He jingled some coins in his pocket, laughing lowly at his discovery.

* * *

><p>Some small endnotes:<p>

I won't go into detail but...:

~White bread really WAS expensive. Some bakers would bleach their bread to jack up the price. It caused a lot of people to become sick.  
>~Wax Museums started showing up in the early 18th century. The Wax Works was the first major one.<br>~France's feelings towards Joan of Arc might seem harsh but...that's the mentality thinkers in France had about her at the time.  
>~Voltaire really was exiled to Great Britain in 1725 for insulting a French nobleman. P'g does not really like him because he insulted her country calling it "a few acres of snow". (glares at Voltaire) We arewere not a few acres of snow, sir! Maybe if he had VISITED New France (now Quebec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, the Ohio Valley, and Louisiana) he'd have a different opinion.  
>~It wasn't until later towards the 19th century that the British started refering to the French as "frogs" (O.o;; Meaning my usage of it is not accurate...sorry). In the 18th century the word was used to describe the Dutch (yeah, seriously).<p> 


	4. To Catch a Thief Taker

Chapter Four: To Catch a Thief-Taker

Arthur sat politely with one leg crossed over the other at a bench in St. James Park. He often visited the park both to think and get milk from the cows crazing there. He was there today to reflect on the frightening scenes of the night before.

He had entered shortly after Francis worrying the Parisian could be caught by the authorities and traced to him. What he saw disturbed him. Full grown men were dancing around a velvet red room, dressed in dresses or fancy, colourful suits. The suits consisted of white, buttoned shirts and tanned breeches with separate white leggings up to the knees. Their jackets, red, blue or yellow, were left undone stretching down just beyond their waist. Their shoes were shiny, black and buckled.

The mollies, men dressed as woman, were equally elaborate. They wore dresses of red, blue, yellow, white and pink with broaches between the chest. Some wore lace caps and others mantuas, a type of half dress/half cape. Their faces were dirtied with heavy makeup, their arms bare of clothing, and their necks and ears held pearl jewelry.

The happy group, no more than twenty, danced around the room with each other. The men in suits were wooing the "women", kissing them, stroking their cheeks and sharing glasses of wine with them. As the night progressed the mingling died down and the sodomites were settling down into groups of two. After a few more drinks they announced their love for each other and proceeded to conduct imitative weddings. They exchanged vows and kissed passionately. Some went beyond and acted out the ritual of giving birth.

Arthur shuddered thinking of all the crazy fantasies that were performed within those secret walls.

In the meantime, Francis had been writing away; chatting with the Molly House patrons and discussing both their emotional and sexual love for each other. He was also fascinated by their double lives. Some were craftsmen others noblemen and others still were politicians! During the day they were ordinary men who worked miserable jobs for a salary to take home. By night they were a group of sodomites, or sexual revolutionists as Francis insisted they be called, engaging in taboo practices.

"Ah, Arthur!" A familiar voice called out to him from a short distance.

Arthur looked over to see Sir John Gonson, the leader of the Society for Reformation of Manners. He was wearing his typical royal blue petticoat and black breeches. A white, flowing wig sat on his head. "Mr. Gonson, sir. How are you?"

Arthur rose to his feet but Gonson waved at him to sit back down. "The Society will be meeting tonight at the same church we did two nights ago. We've received vital information regarding Jonathan Wild and his whereabouts."

Arthur nodded quietly. He was in no mood for this goose hunt but it would give him a reason not to revisit the sodomite brothel with Francis again. The Frenchman insisted he had more research to do and would be going back to the same Molly House in the evening.

()()()()()()()()()()()

After shaking off Francis' pleading for him to journey to the sodomite house in accompaniment, Arthur head towards the little church, his coat wrapped tightly around him to block out the howling wind.

As he reached the tiny old church, barely capable of holding more than two hundred people at best, he entered and met face to face with one of the members he had met during the dinner two days ago.

"Jackson Parley was it?" Arthur said rubbing his arms with his hands, trying to warm them up.

"And you're Arthur Kirkland." The young man with dark curls responded.

Arthur didn't recognize the man from any of his educational or professional circles, yet Parley was indirectly involved in politics. His father was a barrister, though a little known one. Arthur had seem him perform, rather poorly, at the Old Bailey in the past. And yet he still held authority because the patriarch, the grandfather, was a respected and powerful politician.

The Brit glanced over the faces of those collected in the church. They were all men since women were advised not to go on 'prowls'.

"So," An old man in his sixties spoke up as Arthur and Parley joined the group on the pews at the back of the church, "what is he being arrested for? Theft?"

"It would be rather awkward to arrest a thief-taker for theft," another informed him, "We know he's been breaking out his lackeys from jail so we'll have him indicted for that."

"That'll be even easier to do now that he's been exposed as a fraud." Parley grinned.

Gonson smirked, "I have something else in mind…"

Wild had once been beloved by the city for retrieving lost materials and goods. However, his criminal activity of hiring people to steal goods for him to 'find' and return in order to collect the reward money had recently been exposed. This left the people of London feeling cheated and their respect for him immediately disintegrated.

Picking up a pitchfork, one of the members, a shopkeeper and son of a farmer, bickered at the Society to wrap up the discussion and get moving.

"Yes, yes," Gonson grumbled. The Justice of Peace had an ill temper but did not make it to the position he held by being rash. After assembling everyone in proper order and giving strict and orderly commands he led the collection of 'mannered' man outside the church and down a few blocks to a rusty old tavern.

Loud singing could be heard from the outside. Those raising their voices were evidently drunk.

Pushing open the door the members, minus Arthur, barged into the tavern demanding the owner to hand over Wild.

Extreme measures were unnecessary as Wild sat in a dark corner unmoving. He seemed rather surprised that the authorities managed to catch him. Wide eyes returned to normal as he laughed.

"You don't honestly think you can hold me!" He jumped to his feet and rushed out a nearby door.

The Society gave chase through the door, past the kitchen and out the back door. Wild was dead ahead of them, pushing past a stack of boxes while turning a corner to try and slow the eight Reformation of Manners members. The older members of the Society had to stop and push the boxes away while the younger ones simply jumped over.

Arthur couldn't surmise why he was running with them against this thief-taker. Like the younger members he was able to jump over the boxes. As a young boy he ran a lot; passing messages back and forth between his mother and his father at the Old Bailey. His mother, despite her sex, was rather learned and had always been intrigued by the cases presented. For this Arthur could accredit his superior running skills.

After a series of obstacles the only two men still in hot pursuit of Wild were Arthur and Parley. The two were within arm's reach of the renowned thief.

Unlike Parley, who lived in a different borough, Arthur was familiar with the alleyways in the area. He hoped that Wild was equally unaware of street patterns. The Englishman pointed at his comrade and encouraged him to keep track of the thief while he went in another direction. Parley didn't seem overly confident but agreed none-the-less.

Arthur took off down another, smaller alley before the main alleyway opened to a public street. He raced down the tiny, dark back-way hoping to get to the crack in the wall that many kids liked to squeeze though when running away after stealing an apple or bread loaf.

Up ahead he heard a shuffle sound and pushed his muscles to pump harder. Being on a main street meant Wild wouldn't have to jump over boxes or avoid sludge puddles. It meant he would probably get there before Arthur, so the young blonde had to make sure he made up the time while Wild was squeezing through the cracks.

Just as he got to the short hall that led from the crack, something knocked him over. Sure enough, it was Wild. Arthur wrapped his hands around the man tightly as Parley squished himself through, coming to his comrade's assistance. The two held down the thief-taker until Gonson and the rest of the men caught up.

()()()()()()()()()

It was a few weeks, before the notorious thief-taker faced his jury. Arthur had been invited to the trial by Sir John Gonson of the Society for Reformation of Manners. Francis begged to come along to see just how "English justice" worked. Arthur was heavily opposed but relented after Francis promised to cook him an exquisite French cuisine dish – a dish at his own expense.

The two bustled up the stairs into the grand foyer. They walked down the elaborate halls and into the room where the trial would take place. Sitting at the upper level with the rest of the spectators they glanced below to the box set up for the jury. Across from that was the long, elevated table where the judge and his guests sat. To the right of the judge's table was the platform where the accused stood and opposite of that was the table where the lawyers sat.

The room was beginning to fill with people and Arthur took note of the barristers and attorneys entering the room, papers in hand. All those in league with the law wore white wigs, curled and braided. They sat down chatting with each other waiting for the judge to bang his hammer and begin the hearing.

Arthur had just finished explaining the set up to Francis, pointing out who everyone was and their attached reputation when the judge began the trial and called forth the accused, Jonathan Wild.

The rugged man in his mid-twenties shuffled down the stairs in chains and was deposited into the box by his handlers from Newgate Prison. He looked around him and noticed Arthur in the crowd and emitted a dark glare towards the emerald eyed Brit.

The judge called everyone's attention as the indictment was read out. Wild was being charged for failing to turn in the felon who, in this case stole fifty pounds worth of lace, thus making himself look like the thief. It was a new and rather strange rule, but it was just what Gonson needed to have Wild done away with for good.

"There are other indictments." Read the prosecution announcer.

"Unnecessary." A scratchy voice bellowed out, "The first indictment is a capital offense."

Arthur looked to the man beside the judge. It was John Gonson, and he was smiling with enthusiasm. There was only one thing that satisfied him more than catching and prosecuting corrupt thief-takers and that was executing sodomites. Arthur nearly shuddered when the old leader of the Society looked up and smiled at him. It was as if he knew the Brit's terrible little secret. Arthur looked beside him to Francis whose eyes were bulging.

"The sentence is death." The judge banged the hammer and closed the trial, making his way out for a break before the next hearing.

Arthur and Francis exited the building and sat on the ledge of the fountain outside the Old Bailey.

"Well that was rather unimpressive. Was there no one willing to give a strong cross-examination?" Francis blurted out suddenly.

"Why should someone? He's a criminal." Arthur responded.

"But what if he wasn't?" Francis looked at him, "Okay, maybe _he_ is, but what if someone innocent was framed and received the death penalty?"

The Englishman rolled his eyes, "Now you're starting to sound like my father."

Francis looked at Arthur quizzically. The Brit had never discussed his parents with Francis before. The Parisian had already told the Arthur that his family were noblemen in France and were rather conservative and loyal to the King but the Londoner refused to return the courtesy of information.

It didn't take long for the Brit to read his counterpart's face, "My father is none of your business. He's just some lawyer who decided to speak against the authorities about the justice system and was punished for it."

"How so?"

Arthur looked down; having embarrassingly realized he'd said too much, "He…was just sent away. They both were."

Francis asked no more questions understanding the delicateness of the topic. He stood up, "Well Artur, shall we go?"

"And have dinner?" Arthur raised a brow, indirectly reminding Francis of his promise.

"I don't have any fresh goods today, but I promise I will make you something special before I leave."

Francis stretched out a hand to help Arthur up, but had it swatted away.

"I swear," The Brit grumbled, "you're _trying_ to get yourself caught…and me too."

Francis chuckled and pulled his hand back. He waited for Arthur to stand up and the two walked out of the court and headed home.

As they headed down the street towards Arthur's flat, the Parisian spontaneously pulled the Londoner into one of the skinny alleys wedged between two stores. A wooden stand blocked the crowd's view of where they stood.

"Thank you for today, Artur."

Arthur looked over at him, his blue eyes shiny and bright. The Brit hated to admit it but the Frenchman looked rather handsome. His voice was as smooth as his shoulder length, blonde hair and his appearance was neat, tidy, and overall professional.

"Um…" Arthur stuttered, "You're welcome."

Francis hummed happily, sending a surprisingly delightful shiver down Arthur's spine. The Brit blushed lightly and turned away. He was both confused and infuriated as to why he was getting so hot in the face. Perhaps his nerves were still being affected by the Molly House visit and the chase for Jonathan Wild. Arthur was struck back into reality when he felt something soft melt onto his cheek.

It was Francis! He had leaned in to give Arthur a kiss.

Arthur's blush grew tenfold as Francis pulled away. His eyes were widened with shock.

Francis frowned, "I'm sorry, I should not have done that. But really, it was just a gesture of friendship."

Arthur stared speechless. He didn't know how to respond or how to feel. What he did know was that from this point, his relationship with the Frenchmen would never be the same.

()()()()()()()()()()

A figure covered by a large coat, standing out in the crowd watched as the flamboyant Frenchman pulled the Brit into the alleyway. He shuffled towards the passage and snuck a peek inside. Watching the Parisian lean in to kiss the Londoner on the cheek he grinned. The evidence was mounting…

* * *

><p>End Notes:<p>

~The account of the molly house is an accurate one. Sources include: Rictor Norton and Ned Ward (1709).  
>~The setup of the Old Bailey is also accurate. = D<br>~I can't for the life of me find it…but while randomly searching Wild I came across a note that an unconventional law had been dug up to convict him and sentence him to death - seems they were rather desperate to get rid of him. I just thought I'd also point out that it was the second indictment he was found guilty for, not the first. I'm too lazy to discuss the whole thing…you can easily type his name in google and search for more information yourself. They have a website for the Old Bailey and the Newgate Calendar that had detailed information.  
>~In addition, it should also be noted that Wild was not caught by the Society for Reformation of Manners. That was done for dramatic purposes.<p>

Please remember to take the time to leave a review! Let me know what you think of the story, the pace, the detail and descriptions, etc. Also, what do you like better for the scene transitions: the brackets or the line breaks? All the feedback helps me improve my writing for future stories.


	5. Dead Man Hanging

Chapter Five: Dead Man Hanging

A/N: And we FINALLY get to some smut… = D Thanks to those who patiently waited.

A/N2: In the 18th century there was no "lunch". Lunch was referred to as "dinner" and was usually the heaviest meal of the day. If something there was an evening meal it was referred to as "supper" because it usually consisted of soup. This is why Francis suggests he and Arthur have "dinner" instead of "lunch" during the mid-day.

Also, I apologize in advance for all the end notes...

* * *

><p>Arthur and Francis stood shoulder to shoulder amidst a prodigious crowd. Thousands had come to see the infamous thief-taker, Jonathan Wild, be put to death on the gallows at Tyburn. As the prisoner approached, drawn in a wooden cage, the mob started jeering and hurling insults. There was not a single sympathetic person there.<p>

Tyburn was located just outside the city of London and was accessible by taking Oxford Street. It was the street Francis and Arthur took to the hanging, and would be the one they took home. It was from that street that the dead man was coming from.

Arthur and his companion had gotten to the area rather early and were able to get close to the hanging platform. It was common for tickets to be sold (since hangings were such a strong attraction) for the best vantage point, and Arthur had to pool as much money together as he could to get close enough to see the execution. The Brit did not want to be too close however, less the eyes of the criminal find his. It would cause him too much pain to think he brought about the death of someone, even though that person deserved it.

As Wild's carriage approached the platform Arthur could see blood running down his face. No doubt the mobs back in the city pelted him with stones and other sharp objects as he travelled from Newgate Prison to the site of his execution. Despite the harsh treatment he maintained his composure. He was able to stand taller than the guards serving over him, who looked worried and flustered over the unusually harsh verbal insults being generated at the convicted felon.

Unlike the other men condemned to die with him, he was not tied up. He sat in the cart listening to the crowd slander him while the guards waited for the minister to arrive to perform last rites.

When the minister arrived and the rites read the men were given time to speak before their deaths. They went in turn, given speeches before they hanged and Wild was the last of the four.

As the body of the man before him, a highwayman accused of stealing precious goods and money from a Londoner as he walked the King's highway, was taken down and the rope readjusted, Wild was given the chance to speak. During his speech he pleaded for life one second, and then laughed spontaneously the next.

Francis glanced over at Arthur and nudged him, "What is wrong with him?"

"I don't know." Arthur looked at his mate sincerely.

"I can tell you why."

Arthur and Francis whirled around to see Jackson Parley behind them, "He tried to drug himself. Drank a whole bottle of laudanum but it was too much for his stomach so he spit it out. It still managed to mess him up pretty bad. He's insane now. Better for him I guess, since he'll hardly notice he's dead."

"So he really is a coward then." Francis said sternly, nearly in disgust.

Parley raised an eyebrow, "Fancy accent you have there, friend. Pray, where are you from?"

Francis' eyes shot open in surprise. He wasn't expecting anyone to ask such a question. He looked over to Arthur, but the Londoner had no answers for him. He decided he'd simply have to tell the truth, "I'm from Paris."

"A Frenchman…" Parley said with a hint of concern, "Well, that's rather unusual. You do know our countries have no tolerance for each other, do you not?"

Francis rolled his eyes, "Yes, yes, I've been told that many times now."

Parley turned and stared at Arthur, "I didn't know you fancied the French."

Arthur frowned, "It's really a long story."

"Ah," Jackson grinned, "You'll have to delight us with it one day. By 'us' I mean the Society of course."

It was Francis' turn to raise a brow, "Society? What Society?"

Arthur was now caught between a rock and a hard place. How would he go about explaining to Francis that he was a member, albeit a forced one, of a society that targeted homosexuals and other delinquents?

"So," Parley interrupted, "Arthur hasn't told you about us? We're a type of…police force that hunts down the most dangerous offenders of London."

"That's good." Francis nodded, "Like these _Bow Street Runners_ I'm hearing of."

"I suppose," Parley said, "But we hardly associate with them."

"And what kind of criminals are you hunting that are so dangerous? Murders? Thieves…?"

"And sodomites." Parley finished.

Francis stared blankly, as if he wasn't affected at all, "Yes, God forbid someone does not live up to their biblical expectations."

Parley grinned and tilted his hat, agreeing quietly slyly with the Frenchman.

The deadlock stare between the two closed when the crowd erupted into cheers. Looking back to the stage the floor had been dropped beneath Wild and he was struggling as the rope tightened around his neck.

"Well then," Parley spoke up, "I simply came here to see justice done. I'll be going now."

Arthur, who had been quiet and timid up until this point, questioned the young man, "You're not staying to see him die?"

"No need," Parley waved with a flick of his wrist, walking away, "I've seen all that I need to."

Turning their attention back to the hanging, Arthur and Francis watched Wild's face turn blue as his air was cut off. His wiggled around relentlessly as if he could break free if he tried hard enough. It was several minutes before he finally hung there, silent and still.

Arthur took a deep breath and looked up at Francis.

"Would you like to get some dinner?" The Frenchman smiled.

Arthur sighed with exasperation, "How can you even discuss dinner after what you saw?"

The Frenchman shrugged, "I don't know. I'm hungry. Why don't we get something to eat then take a stroll in one of your parks?"

)()()()()()()()()(

After dinner the two Europeans stopped in at their flat so Francis could grab one of his work-in-progress books to read to Arthur at the park.

They travelled down Drury Lane, making their way to St. James Park, Arthur's favourite place to relax. When they got there Francis raced ahead and picked out a tree to sit under. It was in a mostly grassy area far enough away from the path to avoid any unwanted eavesdroppers.

The Frenchman crashed down, leaning his back against the tree. He let out a deep breath through his nostrils before taking the blue covered book from his bag. He patted the grass in front of him, motioning Arthur to sit.

The Londoner hesitated for a moment then sat down, "I can't believe I'm doing this."

"It's fine, Artur!" Francis smiled, "You can't say it's bad if you haven't heard it yet. But when I'm done please give me some constructive criticism."

"I hear the English are good at writing," Francis added, then stalled momentarily, "The function of writing I mean. Like grammar."

Arthur narrowed his brows, "Are you saying Englishmen can't write a decent story?"

Bonnefoy grinned cheekily, "That's exactly what I'm saying. Now listen,"

Francis opened the book. He flipped through the pages looking for something in particular. The action made Arthur shudder, worrying that the Frenchman was going to jump straight to the sexual intercourse scenes.

"Ok, found it." The blue eyed man pointed his finger at the sentence he wanted to start at.

_Jacque climbed the staircase to Madame Cécile's bedroom. She had been locked in there for several days by her parents. The young woman, a mere few days away from her eighteenth birthday, had confessed her love at a public ball for Jacque, whom her parents despised, and they were determined to keep him from her. He reached the door to open it, finding it sealed. With the desperation to hold the delicate brunette in his arms he kicked at the door repeatedly. After a few kicks a quiet, whisper flowed through the cracks._

"_Jacque, c'est toi?"_

"_Oui!" He responded, his heart fluttering. His enthusiasm turned to rage and fear when he heard the muffled voice of another. A guard perhaps?_

"_Cécile, est-qui dans la salle avec toi?"_

_No sound came from the other side of the door._

_A moment went by before a sharp pain of fear crawled down Jacque's spine. He mustered up all his strength and kicked down the door. _

_His suspicions had been correct. There was a paid personnel inside the room. It was a servant boy. In his hand was a dagger covered in a thick red liquid, and on the floor his precious Cécile, blood pouring out of her neck._

Arthur frowned seeing a few tears drop from Francis' eyes, "Why is this part so important to you?"

"I feel so much pain for them, you know?"

"Why?" Arthur asked confusingly agitated, "They're just characters. They're not real."

"No," Francis gave him a soft look, "But somewhere out there, there are probably people who are living like this."

Kirkland rolled his eyes.

"_Je m'excuse_, was there something in particular that you wanted to hear?"

Arthur stared at him, confused.

"You wanted to hear a sex scene, right? Something along the lines of sodomy?"

The Brit's cheeks flushed red, "Uh….n-no! How about…a fighting scene! Yes! Do you have one of those?"

Francis laughed, "I don't have any sodomy in this book, _mon cher_. Only love between men and women. We do write about that too, you know."

Arthur frowned, "What did you call me?"

"Pardon?"

"You said 'mon chere'…what does that mean?"

"Oh," Francis suddenly came to the realization of his words, "It means 'my dear'. Do you have a problem with this?"

Arthur crossed his arms, "Well obviously, since I'm not your dear."

"I can make something up for you on the spot," The Frenchman laughed, ignoring Arthur's distaste.

"What do you mean?" The emerald eyed Brit asked quizzically.

Francis gave a sly grin, "I can make up a story about two male lovers if you'd like."

Arthur gulped. The look on the Parisian's face was rather seducing and it sent a jolt of excitement through his chest. Before he could even comprehend what he was saying he staggered out an, "O-okay."

"Hmmmm," the other pondered, "What should I say…oh! There are two young men in this story…they are formally enemies but because of an unfortunate incident have become friends, okay?"

"Alright," Arthur wasn't sure he liked the uncanny similarities but went along with it anyway.

_George stared at his captures harshly as they interrogated him for information about his king and army. He refused to utter a word knowing he'd be killed either way. It was better to die with vital secrets then to be soulfully responsible for the destruction of his kingdom. _

"They're French, aren't they?"

Francis stopped telling his story to look at Arthur. He smiled, "How did you know?"

Arthur gave him a sarcastic glare, "Lucky guess…"

_The French soldiers shrugged giving up for now to have some dinner. After they had exited and disappeared out of sight an attractive Frenchman –_

"Is George attractive?"

"Hm?" Francis snapped out of his concentration, "Oh, sure."

"What do you mean, 'Oh, sure.'!" Arthur yelled, infuriated.

"I mean," the Parisian reached over to stroke the cheek of his English friend, "he was beautiful."

Kirkland swatted the hand away, blushing hard, eyes wide open, "You fool! The people on the path may not be able to hear us, but they can definitely see us! Watch yourself!"

Francis pulled his hand back, unfazed and continued with his story.

…_An attractive Frenchman appeared. He untied the Englishman who he had become fond of over the last few months, and led him, hand-in-hand, out the slit of the tent. The sun was quickly setting allowing them to escape in the darkness. When they finally got far enough away from the authorities the Englishman stopped._

"_Louis, why are you helping me?"_

"_Because," Louis turned around and cupped the man's face with his hands, "I could not bear to see anything happen to you, mon amour!"_

_The Englishman blushed and took a step backwards. His feelings were battling each other inside him. He placed his hands on those of the Frenchman and peered into the other's soft blue eyes. "I…don't know if I understand."_

_Louis inched closer, "Then let me help you understand."_

_Louis gently pulled George's face closer to his, pushing their lips together softly. The touch made the Englishman shiver as he pulled his hands off of Louis'. _

_Not being able to hold back his desire, Louis pushed between the lips of the Englishman, grazing against George's tongue._

Arthur continued to listen in shock. His face was fully red now, "Y-you know this could be considered treason, right?"

"Why is that?" Francis stopped to ask.

"Well for one, you're using the names of our kings."

The Parisian laughed, "Oh, am I? What a coincidence!"

"Hardly," The Brit muttered quietly to himself. He still craved the details between the two characters, and skillfully encouraged Francis to continue without drawing attention to his want for more. "But change their names, please."

Francis sighed but accepted the request, "Edward moaned as Pierre rubbed the bulge in his pants."

_The two were out of view, tucked away in a crease inside a giant bolder. _

"_Pierre, this is dangerous. If we get caught…"_

"_It is also dangerous if we do not do this!" The Frenchman argued, "If we do not share these feelings now it will haunt us forever."_

_Edward hated to admit it, but this would very well be the last time he'd ever see the young blond he'd grown to love. He timidly placed a hand over the rapidly moving hand of his lover. _

_Pierre moved on to sucking and biting the neck of his counterpart. His blood pumped faster at all the little noises Edward made. He took the hand that had been rubbing the Englishman's pants and carefully slid it down his partner's trousers, grabbing a hold of the cock inside. He drove his hand up and down, swirling his thumb over the tip. _

_Edward sighed aloud at the cool touch, his skin twitching with pleasure. He could barely comprehend what was happening to him only that it felt incredibly good. _

_Pierre kneelt down pulling Edward's trousers down with him. He looked up into the shinning green eyes of the Englishman before licking the tip of his cock._

"_P-Pierre…" Edward whispered, brushing his hands through the Frenchman's silky hair. _

_Pierre responded to the call by swallowing the young man's dick, taking it all in._

Every inch of skin on the Brit was getting hotter as Francis continued to describe the scene of wild passion between the two characters. He felt himself getting harder between his legs and his breath was reduced to inaudible pants. A figure moved in the corner of his eye on the distant path, causing him to jump.

"Gonson!"

Francis stopped to look in the direction Arthur was. He looked back to see a wave of relief over the Englishman.

Arthur had mistaken another person for the leader of the Society for Reformation of Manners. However, the mistake gave him reason to end the literature talk and head home. The two were putting themselves in danger by staying at the park discussing such taboo things.

)()()()()()()()()()(

"It's really too bad we could not have stayed longer," Francis sighed standing on the step outside the building holding Arthur's flat. The courtyard where it was located was empty, "I was really getting into that story. I should write it down."

Arthur flinched, giving a look of uneasiness, "Well…I don't think anyone would publish it so, there's really no point."

Francis looked sad, "Why not?"

"Well," The Englishman reasoned, "because it's sodomy. It's illegal."

Francis frowned in disappointment, "I suppose you are right, Artur. It's too bad though. It was a good story. Don't you think?"

"Uh…" Arthur had been caught off guard. He didn't know how to respond to the question, "Well…if you mean your storytelling abilities…I'd say they're fine."

"That's not what I meant." Francis stared at him, "You know what I meant."

Arthur blushed, "I…have no comment on that."

Francis took the blush as a sign that somewhere deep inside Arthur must have enjoyed his sensual tale.

"L-listen," Arthur looked up into the eyes of the Parisian, "I think…maybe…you should consider going to the French ambassador and staying there."

It was now Francis' turn to be caught off guard. He thought he and Arthur had been having a good time together. Why the sudden change?

"It's nothing personal," The Brit explained, "it's just…"

Francis' narrowed his brows, "Are you afraid of me? You don't like me anymore because of who I am?"

"No!" Arthur shot at him, "I just…I can't…if anything happens to you I can't prote- I can't do anything for you. You're French and a sodomite! They'll destroy you!"

"By they do you happen to mean the Society you and that _Godon_ were talking about?"

"His name isn't Gordon, it's Jackson Parley, and yes that's what I'm worried about."

Francis blinked, "A _Godon_ is someone who is damned or…never mind."

"Look," Arthur continued on, "This whole thing was a mistake anyway. I don't know what I was even thinking inviting you to live with –"

Before Arthur could finish his face was confined between the warm hands of the Frenchman and his lips were pressed into a tender kiss. An alarming pain of fear swept through the Englishman. This sensation was new to him.

"I don't want to leave you, Artur." Francis looked sadly at the blond, scruffy haired Brit.

Arthur was speechless. He stared into the beautiful blue eyes of his familiar and found himself feeling the same despair. He looked away, trying to ignore and forget the action of the Frenchman, "Ok…but…the moment they suspect anything, you must leave!"

The Frenchman sparkled with joy, "Oui! I understand, but I do not think that will happen."

Arthur sighed at the naivety of the Parisian. Gossip spread fast in the streets of London. Even the slightest bit of unusual behaviour warranted the suspicions of others.

Francis opened the door and took Arthur's hand, leading him inside.

As the door closed behind them a mysterious figure, hiding behind a courtyard wall with a luscious garden in front of it, smirked. He now had all the proof he needed…

* * *

><p>End Notes:<br>~Yes, Wild really did try to poison himself IRL.  
>~Daniel Defoe, a journalist, recorded that a huge crowd, presumably thousands, showed up for Wild's hanging. Back in the day, you had to pay a fee to see a man or woman hanged at the gallows. The city made good money that way!<br>~I didn't find anything that would suggest the Bow Street Runners (under Henry Fielding) had any connection to the Society for Reformation of Manners.  
>~It was mentioned a few chapters ago but Francis is part of a literary movement called "La Libertine". They were a group of French writers who wrote sexual fantasies or erotic novels. Most novels were heterosexual.<br>~The King of Great Britain at the time was King George I (1st) [It should be noted that a transition due to the passing of the King was happening in 1727 from King George I to his son King George II (2nd)] and the King of France was the infamous King Louis XIV (14th), AKA "the Sun King".

Translations:  
>~"Jacque, c'est toi?" - Jacque, is that you?<br>~"Cécile, est-qui dans la salle avec toi?" - Cécile, who is in the room with you?  
>~Je m'excuse - Excuse me.<br>~mon cher* - my dear/darling (friend)

*Admittedly, I've always been frustrated because I had long believed "cheri" was used for a woman and "cher" for a man, but having dug deep into the topic I found that:  
>Mon Cher – used for a male friend. General platonic loveliking of someone.  
>Mon Cheri – used for a male you are in love with.<br>Mon Chère – used for a woman, again non-sexual love.  
>Mon Chèrie – used for a woman you are in love with.<p>

They're all pronounced the same with the exception of the first…It's just "Cher" …like the singer.

LASTLY:

Visit the Toronto Zoo website! A new polar bear was born there and needs a name! I've already submitted Kumajirou, but perhaps the more people who request the name, the more likely it'll be chosen.


	6. Sorting It Out

Chapter Six: Sorting It Out

A/N: Could it possibly be that I don't have anything to add here! No...no there's one thing...oh, but I'll put it at the end. Also, I hate having to ask but PLEASE review. I slaved over this story for a month, the least you could do (I'm looking at you lurking readers) is leave a small message saying "Oh wow, I like this story". It doesn't have to be anything in detail. Oh, and if you didn't know you don't have to have an account to leave a message. It'll simply come up saying "Anonymous".

Now for those of you who are reviewing (FrUk27 and 1silentmouse) I have a wonderful surprise in this chapter! Francis and Arthur finally advance their relationship! YAY!

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><p>Arthur awoke the next morning, his back to the Frenchman sleeping beside him. He instinctively, though unconventionally, found himself combing his fingers through the other man's hair.<p>

After a few minutes he got up and changed, heading out to the market.

The Londoner slowly made his way around Borough Market stopping at stalls to buy fruits, vegetables and bread. He chatted with the farmers who came all the way out from the countryside to sell their goods and bought a Daily Courant. Sifting through the pages an article caught his eye, nearly making him drop the newspaper. The headline read: Mother Clapton's Molly House Raided.

Arthur shook, trying to set his head straight, but he was truthfully scared.

The old woman standing at a nearby stall looked at him, "What's wrong son?"

"Oh," Arthur looked at her, trying to swallow his nerves, "N-nothing."

The Brit went back to reading the paper.

_At 10:45pm last night Sir John Gonson and his Society of Reformation of Manners entered a building on the South end of London where the sinful practice of Sodomy was taking place. The Mollies, men who dress in the fashion of women, were arrested as they tried to flee. The owner, Mrs. Clapton, was also arrested and taken to Newgate with the other eight criminals. All the offenders, save the owner, suffered injuries as they were beaten by some of the members of the Society. They are expected to face trial at the Old Bailey soon. The Mayor of London personally congratulated Sir Gonson and the group for their fine service in ridding London of such vice._

Arthur frowned, rolling the paper up and tucking it under his shoulder. He pondered how he would break the news to Francis. The Molly House that had been raided was the same one he and his roommate had visited a few weeks ago.

Walking back to his flat, a bag of groceries in hand, he found himself thinking of what would happen to the Mollies. Committing sexual acts with someone of the same gender was illegal; it was a capital offence. They would surely hang for it. The fact made him all the sadder.

He thought about Francis. There was no doubt the Frenchman had to leave. If the Society could find out about the Molly House what was stopping them from discovering Arthur's secret?

Arthur shook his head. _What secret?_ He thought to himself, _I'm not hiding anything. I just have this French roommate who just happens to think everything is beautiful. That's not odd…he IS French after all. _

The Londoner suddenly remembered the day before. How he had felt about Francis' story, about the kiss, and this morning, the comfort of having the Parisian next to him.

"No!" He shook his head. That wasn't him, he wasn't like that and he'd make damn sure Francis knew it.

Opening the door he found Francis sitting on the bed, hunched over with his hair covering his face.

"F-Francis?"

The Frenchman kept his head down and said nothing. After a minute he finally spoke, "I know what happened to the Molly House."

"You do?" Arthur looked sympathetic. He wondered if Francis had caught a quick glimpse of the newspaper that revealed the bad news Arthur intended to share before he dropped his head.

"Of course!" Francis shot his head up, giving Arthur an annoyed looked, "I heard your neighbour's talking about it. Rather pleasantly I might add."

"Oh," It was Arthur's turn to look down. He felt rather embarrassed. He felt even more terrible knowing the worst was yet to come.

Walking closer to the Parisian, Arthur cleared his throat, "Francis, I need…to make something clear to you."

Francis finally looked up, "What?"

"What I said yesterday," The Brit continued, "I meant that. You really should go to the ambassador."

Francis stood up, "I thought we already solved that issue."

"We did," Arthur answered, "Sort of. I just worry that people might get the wrong idea about us."

The Parisian raised an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

"I mean…yesterday." The Englishman rubbed the back of his neck, looking away, "It was rather strange for me…you know, because I'm not…I'm not like you."

The Frenchman narrowed his eyes, "You're not what? Homosexual?"

"Uh," Arthur threw his hands up, "I'm not trying to offend…"

Francis stood up, still looking angry. "Are you serious? Yesterday you seemed pretty enchanted by my story. You can't just stop being homosexual you know. I should know, I've tried."

The Brit blinked in shock, "What do you mean?"

"I mean," Francis waved a hand motioning Arthur to move back while he sat down on the bed again, "I mean I've tried to be…interested in women."

"Y-you have?"

"Yes!" The Frenchman looked back up at the Brit, "I have tried courting girls, I was even arranged to be married to one."

"When was that?" Arthur looked curiously.

"I don't know," Francis looked to the floor, "Last year. Why do you think I went on this trip anyway?"

"You said you wanted to understand England more." Arthur said matter-of-factly.

Francis choked a laugh, "Psh, I wanted to get away from my family, that's why."

Arthur bit his lip, feeling sorry for the Frenchman. He was having family problems too, but to a different degree.

The Parisian stood up, still rather agitated. "I probably should go to the ambassador as you said. I was really hoping to stay but I feel I may have inconvenienced you. I would hate for your neighbours to spread terrible rumours about you or something of that nature."

"My neighbours?" It had always been Arthur's biggest fear that his neighbours, not the brightest people London had to offer, would rat him out to authorities for something. One of his neighbours, who grew to dislike him because of his father – no reason, the man was a sheep following whatever the ruling class told him – had tried to sell him off as a thief but the university stepped in and gave testimony to his good character. Unfortunately, Arthur no longer had the university to hide behind.

"Yes," Francis admitted, "I've already heard them talking about us."

"They're what!" Arthur gasped.

Francis frowned, "For some time now they've been talking about us. I didn't want to say anything to you because I did not want to trouble you."

Arthur glared. He despised his neighbours and always looked forward to the day when he would make good money at the Old Bailey, allowing him to move away from these despicable creatures. Unknowing what was possessing him he shook his head, "Nonsense. Screw those damn twits and the toffs they kiss arse to."

Francis looked muddled, wondering what the Brit was getting at.

"You're staying here." Arthur stomped his foot, "And that is final. I won't have those wretched gits ruin everything good I have. Besides, the teachings of Enlightenment say we have control over our own bodies anyway!"

The Frenchman smiled, "That is good news. If you are ready to tough it out then so am I."

Arthur smiled back then remembered the bag of groceries in his hand. "Now you can make that dinner you've been promising."

Francis laughed, "Oui, oui, I will make something special for you, as promised."

)()()()()()()(

Sitting at the desk across from Francis, Arthur took a bite of stew and chewed it slowly, savouring the taste.

"This is incredibly good! What is it?"

Francis looked up, "Ragoût…well, sort of. There's no pig's-ear or lamb-stones or cock's-combs in it but plenty of vegetables, seasonings and little bit of wine."

Arthur blushed at the provocative word, nearly choking on a spoonful of mushrooms and anchovies. Francis couldn't help but laugh.

"I am glad you are enjoying my meal," Francis smiled sincerely, "_Je suis tr__è__s heureux_."

Arthur blinked, "What does that mean?"

Francis continued to stare at the other with a soft smile, "It means _I am very happy_."

"Oh," Arthur continued to eat, "I'm rather happy too. One can't go wrong with good company and a good meal."

"Have you found an internship position yet?"

Arthur dropped his spoon, suddenly not feeling hungry anymore. He pushed his seat out and stood up, walking away from the desk towards the bathroom.

"Where are you going? Artur?" Francis stood up stiff.

"I'm just," Arthur paused, holding the knob of the door.

"You still haven't found one have you?" Francis looked dishearten.

The Londoner gripped the knob tighter. He leered at the Frenchman, "No! But so what? I'll find one! It's only a matter of time!"

The Parisian knew better, "Maybe you should consider leaving London too. It seems, unfortunately, your father's reputation is affecting you."

"But the university-"

"All the university cares about is money." Francis shook his head.

The Brit stared at the cold, wooden floor. He was ashamed to admit he couldn't find a position and, not wanting to believe there was nothing that could be done, blamed himself for his trouble. _If I had gotten better grades, if I had put more effort into my internship search, if my letters of intent were clearer._ But truthfully he had known all along why he couldn't secure a place under a professional lawyer…it was his father's reputation…now the family reputation. London was an unforgiving place. If one person messed up, all of your kin were doomed.

Arthur jolted when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up into calm blue eyes, "Francis."

Francis took the Londoner's chin in his hand. He brought his lips close to Arthur's and whispered, "_N'inquiète pas. Je te soignes de toi_."

"I don't…know…w-" Arthur speech was slow and hesitant as he was drawn into a gentle kiss. He could feel the liquid coated lips of the Frenchman pressed against his own. The stew was even better when the taste was coming from his mouth.

Pulling out of the kiss, Francis moved his hand from Arthur's chin to the side of his face. He tenderly stroked the skin over the Brit's cheekbone. He stared lovingly at Arthur's expression; he looked like an innocent, frightened animal. His eyes displayed shock, but also said he was waiting for more.

Francis couldn't stop himself this time; he leaned back in for another caress of the lips. To his surprise and delight the Londoner didn't pull away, slightly opening his mouth to let the Parisian in.

Arthur nearly lost his footing as he melted at Francis' tongue-work. He could feel the Frenchman's hands moving down his back, rubbing every inch of it. Those hands made their way down to his waist and around onto his buttocks. Arthur pulled out the kiss, feeling awkward. It wasn't normal for a man to have his hands on another man's ass and yet it made his loins tingle with excitement.

Francis grinned and pulled the two tightly together so that their fronts were locked together, "I can feel you, Artur."

"Well obviously," Arthur fired at him, confused to the purpose of this gripping hug, "It's hard not to when you're pressed against someone this close."

"That's not what I meant," The Parisian purred in his ear.

Arthur felt his whole body get hotter. He suddenly noticed his hardened erection throbbing as it was held against Francis.

The Frenchman guided the Brit back against the door before pulling their bodies apart. He took a moment to examine the figure in front of him before placing a hand Arthur's stiff cock.

The Brit froze at the exotic touch.

Francis winked, "Since you liked my story so much; why not play it out?"

"Fr-…I…uh…" Arthur was at a loss for words. He didn't have much time to think as an intense wave of pleasure rushed through his body. He nearly buckled when Francis started to rub his bulge rhythmically. Arthur grabbed onto the arm that kept pulling up and pushing down. Logical thinking cried for this to stop, while bodily ecstasy begged for it to continue.

"Do you remember what happened next?" Francis gently placed his forehead symmetrical to Arthur's.

Arthur could barely squeak out a response, still transfixed on the desire for more.

The Frenchman relieved the other momentarily, stopping his work to give up the answer. Only instead of saying what it was he intended to show it. Getting down on his knees he unbuckled the Brit's pants pulling it all down.

"W-wait!" Arthur's comprehension skills were rapidly returning. He lost them again as Francis took him in whole. Breathing harder he grabbed onto the Parisian's hair while his cock was sucked slowly but firmly. Arthur shut his eyes, trying to relax himself as he felt himself getting higher.

Francis deep-throated him twice before taking the hardened dick out of his mouth. He grinned internally noticing the Brit peep open an eye to see what was coming next. He rubbed the tip of the shaft while licking it from its base to the top and back again.

"F-fr-…I'm…" Arthur managed to squeeze out a broken statement, speaking in a pitch higher than usual.

"Good." Francis knew what the Brit was telling him. He swirled his tongue around the slit at the top of Arthur's erection before swallowing him again; waiting for the orgasm. When it came he took it all in, leaving Arthur wide-eyed and surprised.

The Brit blushed hard seeing his mate gulp down his seed. He didn't know whether to feel angry, concerned, apologetic, or flat out disgusted. His legs finally gave in as he slid down the door onto the ground.

Francis crawled up, placing a soft kiss on the Londoner's lips, "You taste good, Arthur…for an Englishman."

"You…you said…"

Francis grinned, "I have been working extra hard so that I could say it right for you."

"Oh," Arthur whispered, "Good…"

The Frenchman pushed a messy chunk of hair out of the Brit face as he fell asleep against the door. He frowned and spoke softly to himself, "I hope everything will work out okay. I don't want to lose everything that is good right now either."

* * *

><p>End Notes:<p>

~Yes, the Society for Reformation of Manners delt the blow to one of, if not THE, most famous Molly House in London at the time, owned by "Mother" Margaret Clap. A funny thing to add to this would be that it is thought that the term "Molly House" was named after Ms. Clap because the short-form of Margaret is "Molly".  
>~People weren't ALWAYS hanged for being sodomites. If it was a small one-time thing (and consentual) then they were often tossed in the pillars. Only in cases where the act was continously done (like in Molly houses) was a death sentence imposed. As for forcing someone I'm not too sure since it could fall under sexual assault which, to my recollection, was not a death sentence. XD Don't quote me though.<br>~A "toff" is a derogatory term for someone who is like an aristocrat or presents themselves as being superior to others.  
>~Oh God...I am REALLY going to go through the teachings of Enlightenment? I'll try to summerize it by saying that during the 18th century there was this movement called "The Age of Enlightenment" or "The Age of Reason". The term wasn't actually used until the mid 18th century but it's philosophy arguably dates back to the 1630s with René Descartes (the <em>I think; therefore I am<em> guy). Every nation used the movement to fuel it's own ambitions. France used it, for example, to push forward it's Revolution while Russia and Prussia used it to solitify the rule of their leaders and Germany used it to heighten it's sense of nationalism, especially in the middle class. Since English enlightenment thinkers tended to focus on the individual and liberties they were often ignored by politicians. John Locke, an English enlightened thinker, argued that "every man has a property in his own person: this no body has any right to but himself" in his _Second Treatise of Civil Government_ (1690). This was often used as a defense by those who knowingly committed acts of sodomy.

Translations:  
>~"<em>N'inquiète pas. Je te soignes de toi<em>." means, "Do not worry. I will take care of you."

**AND FINALLY,**

Visit the website for the** Toronto Zoo**. A new **polar bear cub** was born recently and they're **accepting applications for names**. I've already suggested Kumajirou. I think the more people who request the name, the more likely it is to be chosen. So head over and do that! Just type in "Toronto Zoo" in google. I'd give you a link but...hyperlinks and fanfiction don't seem to like each other.


	7. Caught!

Chapter Seven: Caught!

Note: I found the French Ambassador's name in an 18th century cookbook of all places. LOL!

A/N: I thought I'd make a note since FrUk27 brought it up, but sodomy in France at the time was a serious crime and not tolerated. You have to remember France was heavily Catholic in the 18th century and homosexuality is against the teachings of the Catholic Church. Homosexuals were treaty poorly and if caught were burned at the stake. The last record we have of this happening is in 1750. It wasn't until the French Revolution in 1791 that homosexuality was decriminalized. They still, however, were hastled by the masses for "improper behaviour in public".

* * *

><p>The next day Arthur wandered the streets of London alone. He had successfully convinced Francis to see the French ambassador and the two were going to have an early supper together. Francis chatted excitedly to the Brit that the ambassador had invited Voltaire to join them. He walked the Frenchman over; who was dressed up in the frilly blue outfit Arthur had first met him in, before departing on his aimless walk.<p>

That very morning Arthur had received his own dose of exciting news. He had finally been accepted to practice under Samuel Barlow, a high-priced lawyer and friend of Gonson. The Brit was convinced that his association with the Society was paying off.

As he travelled the streets of London he crossed many locations he had taken Francis to on the first full day they spent together; The London Bridge, the Square where they watched the Punch and Judy show and the intellectual restaurant. He stopped when he crossed paths with _The Wax Work_ shop.

Opening the door, Arthur scuttled inside shutting the door promptly behind him. He turned round to see all the displays. He noticed on in particular on the windowsill. It was a clay demonstration of the Jonathan Wild hanging. The scene gave Arthur butterflies. He remembered how Jackson Parley had happened upon Francis and himself, worrying the Brit that the young brown-eyed man may suspect something; if not sodomy than surely something else. Collaborating with the enemy maybe? Disturbing the King's Peace? High treason?

He walked away from the set up wanting to take his mind off those grand assumptions. Wandering towards the back wall he found the presentation of Joan of Arc. He reflected on how casual Francis had been on the subject. It bothered him to think the English were paying greater respects to this woman than her own people.

Sighing, he turned on his heels and left the store, heading back towards his dwelling. He concluded the best thing for him to do this afternoon, with the absence of Francis, was to study and prepare himself for his first week as a law intern. Making a sharp left, he headed down one of the many alleyways wanting to get home quicker using the shortcuts.

Upon making another sharp turn, to the right this time, he crashed into a tall figure in front of him. Arthur toppled over, landing on his buttocks. He gritted his teeth, slightly annoyed, and stood up brushing off his pants.

"Pardon me, sir." Arthur vented, "Do you think you could be a little more aware of where you're going?"

"Oh, sorry about that boy."

"Yes well, do be more considerate next time." The Brit shrugged. He moved to pass the man when the black hood that covered the person's face was pulled back.

Arthur stood, frozen in place. It was the man who'd robbed him!

"You!" Arthur spat out angrily, "You stole from me!"

The man grabbed the blonde's wrist, "The boss would like to see you. He's got something he wants you to do for him."

Arthur twisted his face, slightly terrified. Who was this mysterious person that wanted to see him?

The draped man dragged Arthur through the alleyways until they came upon a wooden door. This particular alleyway seemed troubling to Arthur. It smelled like urine and had rats poking out of garbage piles.

The cloaked man knocked on the door, informing those inside that his "special delivery" was here.

"Good." The door swung open to reveal the face of a moderate looking middle-aged man.

"Hitchen!" Arthur hissed. He knew this face well; it was of the other known thief-taker who also held a considerable position of authority.

"Ah," Charles Hitchen stepped aside allowing the mysterious henchman to pull Arthur inside, "How good of you to join us, chum."

Arthur barked back, "I'm not your chum! What do you want with me!"

Hitchen closed the door and sat down on a wooden chair in the room. It was mostly pitch black with nothing more than a fire place in the wall to keep it lit. On the other side of the room was a wooden bench with three other cloaked men sitting on it. Arthur could see the face of one of them; he had no teeth and it made the Brit shudder.

"I've been keeping watch of you." Hitchen spoke up, "You have company with you. _French_ company."

Arthur stood stiff. These people knew about Francis. Did they also know he was a member of the Society for Reformation of Manners? Was this some sort of ploy to take vengeance on the Society or on the criminal justice system as a whole?

Arthur repeated himself more strictly, "Why am I here?"

"Because," Hitchen sliced off a piece of apple, taking a bite then swallowing, "I've decided to do some recruiting. I figured you'd be a good person. I saw you chase after Wild – you're clever and fast."

The Londoner chuckled, "What makes you think I'd willingly work for you?"

It was Hitchen's turn to laugh, "Who said anything about willingly?"

Arthur narrowed his brows, "What are you getting at?"

The man in his thirties with some facial hair, the starting of a beard, leaned forward, "I've seen you with that Frenchman. The two of you are together nearly all the time."

"So?" The Brit failed to see the point.

"I saw him kiss you. My employees have seen it too."

Arthur's eyes shot wide open. His worst nightmare had been realized. He made a desperate attempt to foil them, "Oh really? You don't honestly think you're going to hold me down with that! You're a known thief-taker and liar! Even if you do tell everyone who's going to believe you?"

"How about your neighbours?"

Arthur's bold look turned to a frightened one. If Hitchen had others willing to testify who had no connections to him whatsoever he might make others wonder. It was still risky though so the Brit pressed on.

"Everyone knows my neighbours are idiots. No one will believe them!"

"So you wouldn't mind if I had him sent away as a spy?"

"But he's not!" The prisoner blurted out, "He's not guilty of any crime!"

"Except sodomy." Hitchen corrected him.

Arthur frowned, looking to the floor. Hitchen was a clever man, even worse he was a desperate one. Those two qualities together were a bad combination.

"I just want you to do me a few favours. After that I'll let you go; you and the Frenchman."

The Brit looked up, "What favour?"

)()()()()()()(

Arthur entered the street keeping his eye in dead contact with the little linen store on the corner. The area was a secluded one where not many shops were set up. He passed under a bridge that tunneled directly in the middle of a building. He marched up the slope, crossed a small open space, and clutched at the handle on the door.

The building was small and neat. It could easily have passed off for a tiny, one-room cottage in the countryside. He pulled the knob and entered the establishment.

Inside was a plump old woman placing linen into a fine, chestnut box. She stacked the box on one of the shelves behind her before greeting Arthur with a friendly smile. The kind act made the Brit's stomach turn, knowing he was about to ruin her day.

"M-madam…I don't…suppose," Arthur stuttered, biting his lip, "I don't suppose you have any fine cloth from Italy, do you?"

"Why, yes, I do." The old, gray haired woman turned around, reaching for a dark, wooden box on her shelf. Putting the box on the table and pulling out a cherry red satin cloth she asked, "What's the special occasion, dear?"

"Oh," Arthur swallowed his contempt for his deceit, "I'm getting married. I'd like to present my fiancée with a luxurious gift."

The old lady beamed with enthusiasm, "How wonderful! Congratulations! I'm certain she'll love it."

The Brit put on a fake smile as the lady discussed all the details of the cloth; everything from the manufacturer to the price – 50 pounds, beyond Arthur's budget. His stomach stirred reflecting on Hitchen's demand. Arthur was to steal expensive lace from the old lady and bring it back to Hitchen who would then return the box for a reward. That was how this lucrative business was done. Even more disturbing was the realization that when Hitchen had no further use for Arthur he'd simply sell him out. The thought made Arthur want to ignore Hitchen's threats, but an even more pressing matter was eating him – Hitchen could put the idea out that Francis was a spy. Even though he had no proof the French were deemed suspicious and people would easily buy the accusation.

"Will you be buying this, sir?" The old lady's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Before Arthur could respond the door flung open and two flashy looking men entered the business.

Arthur gawked at one of them, "F-Francis!"

Francis smiled with excitement, "Artur!"

"W-what are you…doing here?" The Brit was stunned. He looked to the man behind the Frenchman, assuming it to be the French ambassador or Voltaire.

"I'm here looking at lace. It seems you are doing the same." The Parisian looked at the lace on the table. He frowned and looked back, "Are you sure about that choice?"

"Uh…I…haven't decided." Arthur chocked on his words. He was so dazed by the run-in that he failed to notice Francis had reverted to calling him 'Artur' instead of 'Arthur'.

"What's wrong with this choice? It's _exceptionale_."

Francis looked back at his company. He opened his mouth to say something but stopped and looked back at Arthur, "Oh! Artur! This is the French ambassador, Duc D'Aumont."

Arthur nodded, "Pleasure."

The ambassador gave a light laugh, "Non, the pleasure is mine. I have heard much about you."

The Brit blushed wondering what Francis told him.

"Would you like me to help you buy that?" Francis spoke up, catching Arthur attention.

The old woman interrupted, "Why would he have you do that? It's a gift for his wife-to-be, you see."

"Wife?" The Parisian raised a brow.

"Never mind," Arthur shrugged, "I'm no longer interested."

The Londoner left the shop listening to the old lady blame the two Frenchman for the loss of a customer. He laughed to himself thinking that she should instead be thanking them. He couldn't bring himself to steal, but he couldn't watch Francis be dragged into court and threatened for no reason. He knew what he had to do.

)()()()()()()(

Arthur sat on his bed awaiting his roommates return. When the door knob turned and the Frenchman entered he took a deep breath preparing to confess.

"Arthur," Francis said, closing the door behind him, "What was wrong with you today? Since when do you have a fiancée?"

"I don't." Arthur answered.

"I know," Francis looked at him, "That's why I pointed it out. Why did you lie to that old lady? What were you doing?"

"I…" Arthur was struggling to find the words. He wanted to blurt it all out and cry in Francis' arms. What a fool he was for agreeing to such a stupid idea. Yet, he was fearful of the bad things that could happen to both him and his friend if he didn't.

Francis walked over to him and stood in front. He placed a hand on the Brit's head and drew him into his torso. Stroking his rough, blonde hair he whispered, "You can tell me, _mon cher_. What happened to you?"

Arthur couldn't bear to look the Frenchman in the eye. Hesitantly he said, "The day I met you…I was robbed by someone."

Francis pushed him back slightly, cupping the Londoner's face while lifting it, "You were robbed? By who?"

Arthur pulled the Parisian's hands off his face, looking into his concerned blue eyes, "The robbery isn't important. What's important is that he's come back and his boss is trying to use me for his own gain."

"His boss?"

"Hitchen. He's a thief-taker like Wild." Arthur folded his hands in his lap, waiting for the onslaught of questions.

"What do you mean he's like Wild? How is he using you? Why did you agree? What were you supposed to do? How long do you plan on doing this for?"

"Just breathe for a second and I'll tell you," Arthur glared. He originally intended to keep it all secret but when Francis walked into the linen store he knew the gig was up. There was really no point in holding back, "Hitchen has been spying on us. He thinks we're romantically involved so he wants to use that as blackmail to force me to work for him. I think he may also have intentions of counter-spying on the Society, who has been trying to convict him for some time."

Francis frowned, "thinks?"

"He says he saw us kissing."

The Parisian looked gloomy. He wasn't requesting information on why Hitchen's had made a bold assumption about their relationship. His question was more of a rhetorical one. He was disappointed that Arthur would use that word, as if to suggest they weren't romantically involved, as Francis had thought they now were.

Arthur continued with his explanation, "He wanted me to rob that woman of her finest silk and give it to him to fetch the reward she was certain to give."

"He would've snitched on you."

"I know," Arthur exhaled heavily, "It's good you showed up. I almost went through with it. But still,"

Francis stared, a raw feeling in his gut.

"You have to leave; London at least. No questions this time! Now that I've aborted the heist he'll be after me and he's threatened to make you look like a spy for the French!"

"That's silly, the ambassador will surely-"

"The ambassador is French too! He can't do anything to protect your name!" Arthur jumped up frantically and grabbed his only suitcase opening it up. He ran into the bathroom/wardrobe room and grabbed a handful of cloths, running back he pushed them into the luggage.

"Uh, Arthur…" Francis watched as the Brit ran back and forth, packing cloths into the leather bag.

The Londoner continued to race back and forth, pushing shirts, pants, and other articles of clothing into the suitcase. He only stopped when Francis grabbed his arm.

"Arthur, stop!" The Frenchman held the Brit in place, staring him dead in the eye. When Arthur looked calmer Francis spoke, "Those are your cloths, Arthur."

The Brit slowly spun around to see the sartorial in the suitcase. It was indeed all his. All of Francis' clothing had been burnt at the inn. The Frenchman only had a few pieces that he bought afterwards; most what he wore was borrowed. Arthur moved back to the bed, falling on it, dazed.

"I'm sorry…" He looked down at the floor beneath him.

Francis grabbed the Brit's chin and lifted his face up to his.

"I don't want you to talk about leaving again," He narrowed his eyes, staring coldly at the Englishman, "Never again. Do you understand?"

Arthur froze up. He had never seen Francis so angry before. Trying not to shake he nodded.

* * *

><p>Hmmm...does this chapter feel a bit rushed to anyone...or is it just me? Anyway, things are starting to get good now! The next chapter should be up by the weekend.<p> 


	8. A Stranger Approach

Chapter Eight: A Stranger Approach

A/N: Sorry…there are a lot of alleys in London (18th C). You turn around and BAM there's one in your face. LOL.

A/N2: I've been using some old English terminology so I'll give you a bit of a dictionary:  
>~a buzzard or cull(y) is "a soft fellow who's been tricked into something"<br>~a muff – 18th word for vagina.  
>~Fussocks – a "lazy, fat wrench"<br>~Punk – Back in the day punk meant 'whore'.  
>~ "you really chaf'd him up, sir" – You really beat himbanged him up, sir.

WARNING: There's assault and rape in this chapter.

* * *

><p>Arthur shuffled down Oxford Ave, huddled under his coat. It was frighteningly chilly as the City of London marched towards Mid-December and yet the sky refused to give up the first snowfall. Instead it rained, nothing but hard, cold rain. The Brit found himself having to dodge from tin canopy, to canopy, in the storm, hiding under an umbrella for extra protection.<p>

Arthur threw himself into an alleyway momentarily as the wind picked up, shifting the direction of the rain from straight down to vertical. Wiping away his bangs, already wet and sticking to his face, he checked the pocket watch Francis had kindly let him borrow. It was already well past eight in the evening.

The Englishman huddled in the alleyway for a minute before heading back into the street. He jumped over puddles, trying not to slip. He looked down the cobble road, barely being able to see the street ahead of him as the rain continued to thrash onto the street, creating a deep mist.

Arthur had spent the afternoon and dinner time at Samuel Barlow's home. The lawyer was eager to get a better understanding of the young man who would be serving as his apprentice.

Kirkland was rather impressed by Barlow's home. It was a newly built townhouse a mere twenty minute walk from the Old Bailey. It had three floors, all neatly decorated with fine arts and crafts from abroad. Each floor had a gold and red diamond pattern wallpaper with curls and crowns. There were wooden panels in all of the main rooms and a brick fireplace in the narrow, but long dining room. Barlow, a man well into his forties, had three children and a courtly wife who made a fine roast.

While there the two discussed a variety of topics including the recent execution of Jonathan Wild. Barlow, on occasion, brought up the Molly House raids, but Arthur insisted the issue was not one to converse about with a good Christian woman and children around. The comment seemed to have pleased Barlow as he laughed heartedly and agreed. After the meal, he showed Arthur to the door, shook his hand, expressed his gratitude for the visit and excitement to work with him, and wished him well as he set out.

The visit to Barlow's homestead was a pleasant distraction from his heart wrenching concern over Hitchen. The day before the thief-taker had persuaded him through blackmail to rob an old woman of her finest cloth. After Francis casually appeared at the store he changed his mind. He had no doubt that Hitchen would attack him – politically or otherwise.

Arthur carefully made his way down the sidewalk, keeping an eye out for those dropping sludge into the streets. Many people took advantage of the sweeping rain to throw their dirty waste off to the side. It was dragged away quicker and made others feel less embarrassed about themselves.

Glancing up, he was suddenly jerked into an alley, a hand covering his mouth as someone dragged him deeper into the darkness. After a few punches to the head he was knocked out cold.

He woke up some time later, how much later he could not begin to fathom. Arthur looked around him seeing wooden furniture and boxes; there was even a coffin in one corner. It was a large room, damp and cold. He sneezed, noticing he was still soaking wet and tied to a wooden chair. The sudden bang of a door opening caught his attention.

Walking through the entrance was the man he feared the most at this point. It was Hitchen! The middle-aged thief-taker was dressed in dark colours, trying to blend in with the walls of the blackened room.

The door was shut behind the two henchmen who followed, one of them carrying a dimly lit lamp. He placed the lamp on a wooden table beside Arthur, grinning with no teeth to show. Arthur remembered him from the day before and it made him sick inside.

"So," Hitchen finally spoke, "Where's the cloth, or did you conveniently forget that you owed me your service?"

"I won't do it for you!" Arthur spat at him, wiggling in his seat, hoping to break loose.

Hitchen laughed, "You won't break from that. It's too tight – so tight it could cut your wrists."

The blonde scowled, "I don't have your damn cloth. I couldn't get it."

"Why?" Hitchen demanded, narrowing his brows.

"Because," Arthur looked away, "I was interrupted."

"By the Frenchman?"

Arthur looked back in complete shock. How did Hitchen know this? He swallowed hard, realizing how stupid it was to even second-guess the thief-taker; he had eyes everywhere. That is, after all, how he found out about Francis.

"What is it about that long-haired blonde boy that makes you disobey everything that's civil in this world, hm?" Hitchen continued, a hint of slyness in his voice.

"N-nothing," Arthur gritted his teeth, trying to hide his fear.

"No," Hitchen circled the trapped man, "There's definitely something. I want to know what it is. Is it the way he makes you feel?"

Arthur looked away from Hitchen's luring stare. Those beady, black eyes made him nervous. Instead he focused on the floor beneath him and the little pools of water marking areas where there were holes.

"Well?" Hitchen's snatched the Brit's chin and lifted his face to meet his own. The dark-haired man gazed into the eyes or, in Arthur's view, the soul of the Englishman, trying to find a quick, sufficient answer to his question.

Instead Arthur answered with his own question, "I failed you so what do you plan to do to me? Sell me out?"

"I could," Hitchen grinned, "But I'm rather interested in this whole thing. Why you'd take up company with a man. He's got every part you do, so why no interest in what a woman's hiding up her skirt?"

Arthur blushed a deep red, "W-who said…I wasn't interested in women?"

"That kiss you gave the Frenchman told me so."

Arthur furrowed his eyes, trying to defend himself, "You saw it then, did you?"

"I sure did. With my own eyes."

"Then," Arthur thumbed around in his brain, trying to find the perfect argument, "You'll remember that he kissed me. Not the other way around."

"I didn't see you resisting." Hitchen glared.

"Of course not!" Arthur argued, "I was too in shock!"

Hitchen took his hand off the Brit and brought it to his own chin, deep in thought. After a moment of twitching his lips and shifting his eyes he folded his arms, settling on a decision.

"Well obviously you must've done something to show interest."

"You twit!" Arthur yelled, "That's the dumbest, most outrageous conclusion anyone has ever mustered up!"

Hitchen covered Arthur's mouth with his hand, muffling the lad, "Now you listen here, boy. No matter what you say, I have no intention of letting you walk away a free man. Do you understand? If I can't get you to steal, then I'll find another use for you."

The Londoner shuddered. What else could Hitchen need him for if not to steal? That was the dark eyed man's whole life…what more could he possible want? When Hitchen spoke again, Arthur nearly caved with anxiety.

"I'm going to find out why;" He grinned with a hint of mischievousness in his eye, "why you'd chose a man over a whore."

Looking back at his crew he nodded for them to leave. They were hesitant but followed his instructions, closing the door firmly behind them. Hitchen turned back to Arthur, his hand still tightly concealed the Brit's lips, "I've never fucked a man before. What's it like?"

Arthur was unable to answer, his mouth still forced shut, but even if he could he wouldn't have been able to give a satisfactory comment since the most he'd ever received was mouth-to-genital contact.

Unhappy with the young man's silence, despite the impossibility for him to answer, Hitchen's grabbed Arthur's wet hair with his other hand, yanking it hard, "I'm going to make you a woman!"

The crack against his cheek was followed by a numbing feel as Arthur was repetitively hit in the face. The young blonde was still tied to the chair. His hands were bound to each other behind the back of the seat, while his ankles were tied to the individual chair legs they were perched in front of.

The Englishman spat out a trail of blood and gave the thief-taker a menacing look. The criminal would not back down however, as he tore open Arthur's shirt, punching him in the gut. The move made Arthur gasp for air, hunching over as much as possible.

Hitchen grabbed his hair again, pulling the young man's face close to his own. He stared deep into Arthur's eyes looking for signs of fear, waiting for the boy to flinch.

"What do you two do?"

"P-pardon?" The Englishman struggled with his words, his body still in pain.

"How do you do it? How do you fuck each other? You're men!" Hitchen let go of Arthur's hair and studied the figure in front of him from head to toe.

"I…don't know" Panic was shooting threw the young man's body. Was Hitchen serious? Did he really intend to find out what it was like to have sex with a man? It was utter madness; he would become a criminal himself!

Hitchen slapped him, "Don't be stupid boy! You must know!"

"I don't!" Arthur was telling the truth. He'd never actually had intercourse with Francis, he'd only felt the sensation of having his dick sucked by the man.

"You're just making things worse for yourself!" The thief-taker grabbed him by the throat, "Now, tell me, has he done anything to you at all?"

The Brit hesitated, but the tighter the grip around his neck got, the more he coughed up his secret, "H-he just…me…"

"He what?"

"H-he…su…me."

Hitchen released his hold, "Spit it out, ya buzzard!"

With air filling his lounges again, he shouted, "HE SUCKED ME YOU DAMN ARSE!"

Hitchen's eyes widened. He stepped back, looking at Arthur as though he were pale with the plague, "What do you mean? You mean your dick?"

The word made Arthur shudder. He was still too embarrassed to admit what had happened. As Hitchen's probed for more information he quietly nodded, frowning at his defeat.

Without any reason Hitchen said, "I want you to do it."

Arthur looked up confused.

"I want you to do it to me."

The Brit's mouth dropped open in surprise. The thief-taker really did plan to experiment! Now Arthur would be guilty of not one, but two accounts of sodomy. It frightened him…but there was still some hope. He remembered studying a case where a young boy was the victim of a sodomite attack. The sodomite was sentenced to the pillar and the boy walked away free. But Arthur couldn't expect such luck; he'd already had a sexual encounter with Francis. He could not claim that Charles Hitchen had raped him and Francis had not. It was one or the other – either you were a full sodomite and all sexual activities were legitimate or you weren't.

As Arthur hummed over the topic in his head, Hitchen slowly pulled down his pants. He appeared hesitant himself, but was also extremely curious. The criminal had never been one to follow the rules and this to him was another way to control others. There were 'respectable' woman running underground brothels, using unhappy married women as slaves to make money, so why not take advantage of this poor bugger?

Whipping his plump manhood out, he stood in front of Arthur glaring down on him, "Suck it."

The blonde clenched his eyes shut and turned away. He could barely even look at the hard stick of flesh in front of him. He opened his eyes and yelped as his hair was pulled for a third time.

Hitchen took the opportunity to shove himself inside the mouth of the young man whilst he cried out in pain. Holding Arthur's head in place, the dark haired man started to thrust himself in and out, adjusting to the wetness and heat.

Tied to the chair, Arthur couldn't do anything to stop the onslaught by his captor. He wailed as the fleshy manhood continue pushing further down his throat. The mumbled sounds seemed to be affecting Hitchen as his dick became harder and his movements faster.

He felt ashamed feeling himself become firmer. He was not attracted to Hitchen at all, yet his body was still reacting to the provocative actions. Mentally, he wanted to break down and cry or run away and get help, none of which was possible.

With an intense feeling in his abdomen rising, Hitchen released himself into Arthur, making the Brit gag.

"A man's seed shouldn't be wasted down the throat of some cull; it should be somewhere more proper." He examined Arthur as the young man gasped for air, "Well, you don't have a muff, so…I guess the ass is all that's agreeable."

Leaning over, Hitchen cut the ropes binding Arthur's legs to the chair. He stood up, grabbing one of his victim's arms, lifting him up off the chair and leaning him against table nearby.

Struggling to keep his footing, Arthur crashed onto the table, his hands still bound behind him. He began to feel dizzy as things were happening too fast. He could barely keep his head straight as Hitchen pulled down his trousers, grabbing hold of his tingling cock before thrusting his own inside.

"Ah!" Hitchen shouted, not anticipating the tightness, "Bloody fucking hell!"

Arthur was lost in a daze, caught between agony and numbness. He couldn't believe this was actually happening to him. His mind and body came back as Hitchen began thrusting, having adjusted himself to Arthur's tightness.

The young blonde clawed at his own back through his shirt, trying to fight the tears swelling in his eyes. It was the worst feeling he'd ever encountered as electric bolts of pain shot up from his anus to every part of his body.

Hitchen's insertions were strong and paced. Arthur had to keep his eyes closed, and his mind focused to fight his own insanity. After several minutes the hardness inside him released a stream of warm fluid that climbed its way up inside him, making him tremble. The feeling of the jet stream of cum inside him made him spill his own frothy, white semen.

The finish left the two of them panting harshly, Hitchen standing erect, Arthur hunched over the table.

Hitchen pulled out with a snarky comment, "You should've taken the linen from that damn, fat fussocks. Now look where you've gotten yourself. You're a damn man-punk."

Hitchen's pulled up his pants as one of his henchmen re-entered the room. He stared, slightly frightened of the image before him, before speaking, "you really chaf'd him up, sir."

"Yeah," the middle-aged man muttered, "Now get 'im outta here and make sure he stays quiet."

* * *

><p>For the record, there really were women hosting underground brothels that held married women. Many of these "unhappy married women" were blackmailed into working for the brothels because the owner would encourage them to do something wrongillegal or to have an affair and then threaten to tell their husbands about it. It was totally sneaky!


	9. Arthur's Secret

Chapter Nine: Arthur's Secret

A/N: Just noting this but, the circus doesn't really start until the late 18th century, whereas my story takes place in roughly 1726…just so you know. Within this story the circus and a freak show are combined.

A/N2: I thought this chapter was going to be short when I did the outline…it's not. Probably the longest chapter so far; so far in fact that I had to cut the end off and make it a flashback in the next chapter.

* * *

><p>Arthur sat neatly on his bed, his hands folded in his lap. He was waiting for Francis to return with dinner from the upstairs shared kitchen down the hall. He twitched slightly, the pain still circulating through his figure, especially in the lower area between his buttock and hips. He yawned tiredly, having gotten no sleep.<p>

Francis returned with a grin and a plate of sandwiches.

"J'ai revenu!" He said, announcing his return. The peppiness in his voice made the Brit smile.

"Let's see," The Parisian laid the plate on the work desk, "We have cold meat between bread and…oh, this one has an egg between bread…"

"I'll have the meat one." The Englishman said, without waiting for Francis to finish.

"Arthur," France looked at him, sincerity and concern reflecting from his solid blue eyes, "are you alright?"

Arthur looked up, "Oh, of course. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well for one, you didn't get any sleep."

Blast all…the Frenchman noticed. Not but three days ago the pair had begun to share a bed on a regular basis. Arthur would huddle on the left side facing the wall, and his roommate would snuggle up on the other side.

Francis continued to stare with the same concern as if to say he did not believe Arthur.

"Look," Arthur changed the subject, "Why don't we go out today. We'll do something fun!"

"Did you have something in mind?"

"Um…" Arthur thought for a moment. He suddenly remembered a flyer he'd seen advertising a circus coming to town. Why such an event would be put together mere weeks before Christmas was beyond him, but perhaps it was to distract Londoners from the bitter cold. "We'll go to the circus!"

"There's a circus?" Francis blinked.

"Yes!" Arthur grinned, "There'll be all sorts of strange attractions, like bearded ladies and midgets and all kinds of strange people."

Francis frowned, "And this is amusing to you?"

Arthur mirrored the frown. Was the Parisian upset with him?

Francis shook his head and smiled, "Ok, if that is what you would like to do, then we should go. I should probably see this carnival first before I berate it."

"Well then, let's hurry and eat so we can go!"

Francis and Arthur sat on the wooden bench under a large, red tented structure. They watched a group of horses race around the track, jumping over poles and through hoops. Their eyes dazzled in surprise of the acrobats and their ability to keep balance on high wires and suspended, moving swings. They applauded at the effort of a young man who juggled three torches, blazing with fire – that is, until he tripped on a rock. Luckily he wasn't hurt.

As the show ended, they stood up chatting excitedly to each other about the performances.

"The horse race was splendid, but it still doesn't beat an afternoon at the Jockey Club." Arthur laughed, gesturing to the newly formed organization for professional horse racers.

"I have never seen a horse race." France smiled politely.

Arthur was aghast, "How could you possibly have never seen one! Your parents are rich, aren't they? Surely they attend races in the countryside! Or at the very least have horses of their own…"

"Oui," Francis responded, "They have horses, but they are more into refined arts than sports."

"Well, dammit all, even my father went to the races." Arthur turned, squeezing through the crowd out of the tent.

Francis followed behind him, "Maybe we can go together sometime."

Arthur looked back at him, slightly sympathetic, "Yes, why don't we."

They trudged along, looking at various exhibits. The first one was of a hermaphrodite, which Francis found rather intriguing. He made a quick sketch of it, thinking he could use it in a future story somewhere. The second was just as interesting; a midget man from South Asia, brought all the way from India in chains because of his "wild" behaviour. Francis was not as impressed with this one, feeling a sense of compassion for the miniature adult male.

"Step right up! Step right up! Come see the lobsterman! Is he a fish, or man! You decide!"

The screaming carnie caught Arthur's attention as he waved his tri-cornered hat. Arthur tugged the end of Francis's burgundy frock coat like an excited child, motioning him to move to the next show. Without question Francis followed leaving the small person behind, following Arthur.

The two stared at the figure for a while before Arthur laughed, "Poor fool, he probably doesn't even know what's going on. The dumb thing."

The look he received from the Frenchman was rather surprising. Francis did not look happy with the Brit's comment at all, "I don't understand. One minute you seem compassionate, the next you're just as stupid as the rest of crowd."

Arthur's grin dropped off his face. He was left speechless.

The Parisian exhaled, rubbing his head, "I'm sorry…I'm just trying to understand you and your people."

Looking back at the freak on display he frowned, "I don't find any of this amusing at all. I pity these poor people. They are jested and laughed at like they aren't even human."

"Oh," Arthur couldn't think of anything more to say.

"Do you believe that too?" Francis looked at him, fearing what the response might be.

"I'm…not sure." Arthur replied. In truth he did feel some empathy towards these creatures, but in a world where they were meant to be gawked at on display it was hard to convey these feelings without being looked down upon for indifference.

"I think maybe we should go," Francis cut into the silence, "I'm feeling rather uncomfortable here."

"S-sure…" Arthur followed Francis as he made his way out of the crowd and off the fairgrounds.

Without saying a word the two Europeans found themselves shuffling home. No one had suggested they go back the flat, but both seemed to automatically assume it was best place to be heading.

Opening the door, Arthur stepped instead with Francis behind him. He shut the door before taking off his gloves and scarf.

When he had finished putting his outdoor winter attire away he made a friendly suggestion to break the tension, "Why don't we play a game?"

Francis was still in a slightly disappointed mood, "Well, I suppose that's better than doing nothing."

"Right then," Arthur went to the large, wooden chest at the end of his bed. He opened it up pulling out a light wooden box, "How about chess?"

The Parisian looked up, staring at the box. At first Arthur worried he had no interest, or didn't know how to play, but Francis smiled cheekily, "Ok, but I should warn you I'm very good at this game."

The Englishman smirked back, "Well, good. I've been looking for a strong opponent. There's not a man in London who can beat me in chess."

Francis laughed boldly, "You exaggerate! You couldn't possible know everyone in this city."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, "I know enough of them to know how much better of a player I am!"

Francis calmed himself into a polite smile, "Ok then, let's see who will win."

Arthur set up the board placing all the pawns and pieces into the right spot. He elected himself to play black, while Francis took white.

In the first game, Arthur was soundly beat. He was appalled that there was someone who could not only rival his strength, but surpass it. Determined, he started another game only to lose again. On the third attempt he managed to close the margins, but was still defeated.

"Argh!" The Brit nearly tossed the wooden board and all its pieces up in the air, "Blast all! How can I be losing?"

Francis ran his hand through his hair and beamed, "Well, I told you I was the best, didn't' I?"

"One more!" Arthur jumped out of his seat, pointing an accusing finger at the Frenchman, "I'll beat you this time, I swear it!"

The Parisian sighed and shrugged, "Ok, if you really want to lose again that badly."

The fourth and final battle was a long drawn out one. At first Francis was dominating the board, but Arthur managed to find a way to crawl back, putting Francis' king in jeopardy. Stuck in a tight spot, Francis found it rather difficult to avoid checkmate and so threw his hands in the air, declaring his surrender.

"I DID IT!" Arthur flew up triumphantly, "I knew I could beat you!"

"Yes, yes," Francis agreed, not seeming to care at all that he lost. He watched his roommate prance around the room, swinging his fists with cheer, singing aloud about his victory. The scene made him at peace inside, but also in the depths of his soul, and loins, excited. Standing up, he walked over the Englishman, grabbing onto his wrist, stopping the happy dance and song.

"Uh…" Arthur blinked, staring into the Frenchman's eyes, "What…are you doing?"

The other man smiled sharply saying, "I'm sorry Arthur, but I cannot help myself. You are too much of an exquisite thing."

Before the Brit could return a comment or question he was silenced by a deep kiss on his lips. He flinched in fear, jerking his wrist out of Francis' hold and scuttled backwards, nearly tripping. He paced himself in reverse stopping in the closet/bathroom.

Francis blinked, rather shocked, "Arthur? Are you ok?"

Truthfully, Arthur was not ok. He didn't mean to insult Francis, but the memory of his rape was too vivid to ignore. He never wanted to be touched like that again.

"Arthur?" Francis renewed his question, looking more concerned than before.

"I'm…fine…I-I just…" He trailed off not wanting to have to relive those dark flashbacks.

"You're not." The Parisian grabbed Arthur's shoulders, holding him in place. He could feel the Brit shaking in his grasp, which worried him even more, "Please tell me what is wrong. If you are really upset about it I won't touch you. I won't ever touch you."

"N-no," Arthur looked away, trying not to blush, "That's not it. …I mean…it's not you."

"Than what?" Francis stared deep into Arthur's eyes, looking for some sign of an answer.

"It's nothing. Nothing to worry about."

The Frenchman gave his English counterpart a solid shake, "Tell me now!"

Arthur looked at him, stunned and wordless. The look made Francis ashamed of his actions. He quickly apologized taking his hands off the Brit and stumbling backwards, hitting the wall beside the door leading back to the main room. He slid down, sitting still on the floor.

Rubbing his shoulders quickly, Arthur made his way over to Francis kneeling beside him, legs sprawled out on either side of him, bum on the floor. There was a strong look of sadness in his eyes. After a minute he finally collected the courage to speak, "He found me."

Francis looked up, "Who?"

"Hitchen. He found me and…did things to me." Arthur looked up frantically, quickening his words as though he were trying to emphasize how blameless he was, as if someone was going to accuse him of some wrongdoing, "I told him not to but he insisted! I didn't want to, Francis! I didn't! But he didn't care! I couldn't do anything to stop him! He just…he just…"

Francis' heart broke watching the Brit dissolve into tears. He leaned forward, wrapped his arms around Arthur bringing him to his chest as he moved backwards again towards the wall, Arthur scrunched up with him. Listening to the sobs, he gently placed his head onto the others, rubbing his back.

"What did he do to you, mon amour?" The Parisian whispered faintly.

Arthur was too embarrassed to say it directly, but realized it would tear him apart inside if he didn't, "He…had carnal knowledge of me."

Francis stopped rubbing Arthur's back, feeling a demoralizing sadness sweep over him. He had hoped he would be the first to ravish the Brit in an intense orgasm. Sure, he had sucked him off, but that was nothing compared to the physical dance of love he wanted to share with his partner.

"I will stay with you by your side forever than."

Arthur looked up, peering with an innocent childlike curiosity at the man holding him.

"I won't ever let him do that to you again. I will make him suffer for ever having even looked at you." France's words were sharp and filled with rage as he combed Arthur's hair before drawing him into another embrace.

The concern melted Arthur's heart as the love he felt from Francis heated up his entire being, soul and body. He suddenly felt the urge to share this love with the other, wanting to replace bad memories with good ones.

Sighing the Frenchman's name, Arthur moved his head up, fitting it nicely against Francis' neck. The heat from his breath stretched across Francis' throat making the Parisian tingle with the urge to touch his partner all over.

Francis said nothing as he went back to rubbing the Brit's back at a slower pace than before. His hand moved from the tip of the Englishman's shirt collar all the way down to his hips. He took his other hand and smoothly intertwined his fingers with Arthur's.

The green-eyed young man omitted a small, humming sigh, closing his eyes. The feeling of the loving touches were calming but also inviting. He pushed his head slightly back, resting it against Francis' shoulder blade and looked up at the other blonde, his eyes full of desire.

Francis looked back, reading the stare, "I won't hurt you."

"I can't go on like this," Arthur pleaded, "I need to wipe it all away."

The Frenchman frowned, "You'll be guilty of sodomy for sure then."

"That doesn't seem to matter anymore!" Arthur protested, "That damn Hitchen already has a whole host of people willing to testify that I'm a sodomite anyway!"

Francis looked rather upset. His shoulders dropped as he asked, "Do you love me?"

The Brit blinked, confused at the purpose of the question, "What the devil does that have to do with anything?"

The Parisian laughed, "See? You are doing it again. One minute you're helpless, the next you're raging mad; then you are intelligent and after that you're just another idiot in the crowd. You have a very unbalanced personality, mon cher."

Arthur took slight offense to his comment and opened his mouth to defame the Frenchman for such accusations, but before a syllable could be uttered he was absorbed into heavy kiss. Feeling Francis lick his lip before pushing into his mouth and pressing against his tongue made Arthur shudder. Whether it was from shock or delight he could not tell. His moans rippled up his throat and down that of the young man caressing him. Not wanting to slide fully onto the floor from going numb Arthur pulled away to breath.

"Well?" Francis looked at him with glossy eyes, "do you? Because if you don't I refuse to go any further."

"I don't know." Arthur responded, "But I do know that I feel _something_ for you."

The Frenchman ran his fingers through the Brit's hair, then brought his forehead to his lips, kissing him gently, "Than let's find out what that something is."

Arthur felt an electric bolt of excitement travel down his body as his face heated up into a blush. He hated to admit it but he was also curious to fully understand this feeling of affection he had for his guest. His train of thought was cancelled by the sensation of having his neck nibbled at. With his face turning a brighter red, he removed his hand from Francis' and weaved it in other's hair.

Francis licked all the red spots where he had bitten, while his free hand undid the four large buttons on Arthur's waist coat. He pulled back to yank off the black vest before drawing the Englishman back into another hypnotic kiss.

The sensation of all the kisses and touches were making Arthur harder. Brushing a quick hand across the Parisian's lap he could feel how erect Francis was becoming as well. The large bulge sent a wave of curiosity through him as he wondered how it would look and what it would feel like in his hands or even…

A cold touch to his skin interrupted his thoughts as he realized Francis had undone his shirt and was running his hands down his chest. Despite the bitter chill it continued to arouse him and he made a rash, brainless decision to poke Francis' package.

The Frenchman moved back and flickered his eyelids in surprise.

"I…I'm sorry," Arthur was now feeling embarrassed, "I just wanted to…feel it is all."

Francis smiled as though he were going to burst out laughing as Arthur rambled on making all sorts of excuses about comparing sizes and wondering if the rumours about the French were true. He patted the Brit on the head, "Why don't I just show you."

Arthur's face flushed a deep red as Francis stood up and jerked off his pants, revealing his lower body. He proceded to take off his frockcoat and silky, white buttoned up shirt, making himself completely naked. The Brit's eyes travelled from the toes all the way to the head, moving back down to the cock again. The rumours about the French were certainly true and it made him embarrassed and jealous as he was definitely smaller in comparison. Why Francis didn't laugh at him the first time he saw the Brit's dick was far from fathomable.

"You don't have to stare," Francis spoke up, "It's not like it's the rod of the King."

Arthur _hmph_ed as Francis chuckled. The Brit placed an index finger on the tip. His mind was suddenly drawn to the experience he had had when Francis was sucking him off. It was intense and beyond anything wonderful he could describe. His mind then shifted to the moment Hitchen forced himself down his throat. He knew the feel and the taste and it made him hesitant to go forward, but the desperate need to shake the thief-taker from his mind made him gutsy with chance.

"Ugh" Francis chocked out in wonder when Arthur took his cock in hand and licked the tip, "Are you sure about this? You don't have to do this if you don't want to."

Arthur kept his focus on massaging the hardened flesh, responding, "I refuse to be a slave to that damn criminal."

Francis' facial features softened when the green-eyed man looked up with determination, "I need to be free of him."

The Parisian nodded allowing the Brit to go back to pumping him. He moaned when the Englishman dared to take him all in. Not wanting it to end, he placed a hand on the back of Arthur's head, encouraging him to continue sucking.

To stop himself from smashing into the Frenchman's abdomen Arthur placed his hands on Francis' hips. The feeling of the foreskin and precum on his tongue made him hum with desire. He began adding to the intensity by sucking harder and casually dragging his teeth, a simple grazing touch, across the solid cock as he bobbed back and forward.

"Ah…Arthur," Francis moaned silently, continuing to grapple Arthur's messy, blonde hair, "Oui…oui, oui, oui, oui, oui…"

Embraced in the repetitive movement, the Brit pushed on, adding low hum. The vibration of the noise nearly sent Francis over the edge. He released his hold on Arthur's head and dug his fingers into his own fine hair, closing his eyes tightly. The only thing stopping him from undoing himself was the desire to relieve himself inside his partner.

Francis bent over, his length slipping out of Arthur's grasp, and enveloped the Brit in a hefty kiss. He slipped the white, cotton shirt off Arthur's shoulders while continuing to probe the inside of his mouth. Kneeling down after catching a breath he undid the Londoner's belt buckle without complaint and pulled down the dark trousers to the Brit's knees where they could go no farther.

"Please do it," Arthur's eyes will fully of neediness, but Francis had something else in mind.

"Non," He responded, draping his arms around Arthur's waist, "I would like to do something different."

At first the Brit looked at Francis with child-like confusion, but blushed heavily as his ass was firmly stroked and squeezed. He wasn't completely sure, but had a good idea of what Francis was thinking of doing.

When the first finger pushed past his entrance, Arthur gasped and clutched onto the Parisian's shoulders, yelling, "What the bloody hell!"

Francis immediately pulled out and pushed back from the Londoner, "I'm sorry, are you alright?"

Arthur placed a hand on Francis', which was neatly placed on his shoulder. He looked to the ground embarrassed, "I'm…fine. I just…wasn't expecting that."

Looking up he added, "Why are doing that anyway?"

"Oh," The Frenchman flashed his eyelids, "Well, it's good to do for what comes next. I mean…"

"You're going to insert yourself into me," Arthur had a hint of annoyance in his face, his voice stern.

Francis smiled with a slight laugh, trying to lighten the mood, "How did you know?"

"Because," Arthur glared looking down, "That's what _he_ did."

"Did he prepare you first?"

"Well obviously not. He just jumped on me. No warning at all."

"No," Francis wrapped his arms tightly around the Brit, running his index finger up and down Arthur's crack, "I mean, did he stretch you so that it wouldn't hurt?"

Arthur quaked in the blonde's arms, "S-stretch?"

"_Mhm_" The Parisian hummed, wedging himself back into Arthur's heat. He prodded his finger around before inserting another one, making the Brit flinch. Arthur remained quiet trying to ignore the feeling as it was a double-edged sword between pain and pleasure. The feeling of Francis scissoring him, and finally adding the third finger nearly made him buckle into the Frenchman's arms.

"Ok," Francis' winked at a red-faced Arthur, "This is your last chance to back out. Once I start I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."

Arthur felt slightly threatened by the comment, but nodded; desperate to free his mind of his attacker and replace it was someone he had affection for.

* * *

><p>AN: = D Don't worry…the scene isn't over yet…you'll just have to wait to see what happened between them. The chapter was getting really, really long so I pushed it back. FORGIVENESS!

NOW FOR SOME FRENCH:

J'ai revenu! - I have returned!  
>Mon amour - My love<p>

And SOME History:  
>~The Jockey Club wasn't formed until 1750 with the first Derby being held in 1780 in Espom, Surrey, England. However, people were still racing horses. The first Racing Calendar was produced in 1727. Of course horse racing goes WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY back even before the days of the Greeks. Chariot racing was a popular event at the (ancient) Olympics. As for England, the first horse races are thought to have been held by Roman soldiers around 200 AD, but the first recorded race was in 1174 at a horse fair in London.<br>~Chess is somewhat complicated to discuss. It existed and yet it didn't. At this time it would've been known as "Queen's Chess" and was constantly being refined with new rules being added. The rules were fairly similar but some, like the stalemate, weren't added until the early 19th century. The game as we know it wasn't finalized until the mid 19th century.


	10. Surrender of a Sodomizer

Chapter Ten: Surrender of a Sodomizer

A/N: As you may or may not have noticed the names of the victims have been changed in regards to the Molly Houses. Jonathan Wild and Charles Hitchen (with the exception of the 'e' replacing an 'i') along with John Gonson are the actual names of their respective historical figures. You can see some of the cases by going to either the official website for the Old Bailey () or visiting Rictor Norton's site on Homosexuality in Eighteenth-Century England (.uk).

A/N2: I'm rather disappointed at the lack of reviews for the last chapter. I'm hoping everyone was just busy and that my "sex scene" didn't scare people away or anything...

* * *

><p>Francis and Arthur stood side by side at the back of the crowd at Tyburn. On the road to death today were two of the men found guilty of sodomy at Mother Clapton's Molly House. Despite her pleading at the Old Bailey for mercy on them, as she was very fond of her customers, they were sentenced to death for committing the <em>heinous and detestable Sin of Sodomy<em>. The group, as it was learned in court, had been spied on for over a year and exposed by a vengeful sodomite who had been ousted by the community. Of course, that was never mentioned during the trial. Francis had found out by talking to an inner circle of homosexuals, one of whom managed to escape the raid. The traitor was able to walk free and Ms. Clapton was left struggling with legal battles over her coffee house of sin, a fine of twenty marks, a day in the pillars and two years' imprisonment.

Arthur watched the two men climb the gallows. The first was Lawrence Gabriel. He was an aging gentleman just a few years past forty. He looked both angry and terrified as he reached the top of the platform. Behind him was Tom Rite, who was just over a decade younger.

Gabriel was the first to be noosed as he made his final statement. He accused Newman, the main testifier against him, of lies. He held fast to his religion and emphasized his eighteen year marriage with a now deceased woman who, "…bore me many children."

Francis knew the truth. Gabriel was, in fact, a sodomite sympathizer who had visited the establishment several times to show support for a dear friend. It tore at Francis to know this man was being falsely accused and would leave behind several children, the oldest one just thirteen.

As the floor beneath him disappeared Gabriel plummeted down, the whooshing sound followed by a snap of the neck. It wasn't enough to kill him so he twitched in place for a few moments before being spirited away. Arthur and Francis could not bear to watch and turned away before the decisive moment. The only signal that it was over was an eruption from the crowd in applause.

After Gabriel had been cut down the stage was reset for the next offender. Rite walked up, visibly shaking. He stood before the crowd as the noose was clasped around his neck. Taking a deep breath he professed his sins to the crowd, admitting he had engaged in some lewd activities with men. He also, like the man before him, accused Newman of perjury and gross exaggerations.

Francis and Arthur once again shut their eyes tightly as the floor beneath the accused was removed. Rite had a much scrawnier neck than Gabriel and didn't suffer as long. Francis nearly wept as he was especially fond of Rite, who was humorous and good-natured.

Arthur emitted a chilling sigh as the crowd cheered at the finale. He pictured himself and Francis on the gallows standing before the mob. He thought of their jeers and insults as the two desperately pleaded for freedom and forgiveness; as they reasoned with the crowd…or rather as he pleaded with the crowd. He could see Francis standing tall, facing whatever accusations came. He could see Francis admitting his love of men, or more specifically, his love for Arthur. The Brit exhaled slowly praying it would never come to that. Thinking about it made an unexplainable sharp pain of sadness and despair sweep through his heart.

He and Francis had already done the undoable and engaged in explicit sexuality. He bit his lip trying to keep himself cool as he recalled the night before:

_Francis slid down from a kneeling position to a sitting one. He spit on his hand adding some more lubrication to his now semi-dried cock. Pulling Arthur onto his lap he gave the young man one finally kiss before pushing past his entrance and tunneling up inside him. The tight feeling left Arthur gasping loudly, throwing his arms around Francis and clawing at his back. Francis gave a sharp hiss inward at both the sensation of Arthur's taut inside and the nails digging into him._

_They sat still for a moment as Arthur adjusted to the constraint. He breathed deeply before committing to the next step, "Ok, I think…I'm ready."_

_Francis' response was a simple kiss to the shoulder blade. He lift Arthur up by the backside and slide him down slowly causing the Brit to groan. They took it slow the first few times but as Arthur became more familiar with the feeling he instructed the Frenchman to go at a faster pace. _

_It was all Francis needed to cradle Arthur down onto the wooden floor and arch over him. Arthur's legs were spread on either side of the Parisian with the other still inside him. The thrusts began to pick up speed in a hypnotic rhythm making the Londoner blush with passion. The feeling was both painful and pleasure-filled and with every insertion the latter was winning out over the former. _

"_Ugh, Mmm, yes," Howls and mewls and keening noises were cascading from the Brit's mouth to the point where, embarrassed with his desire, he threw a hand over his lips to quiet himself. _

_At first Francis was too focused on pushing harder and harder, trying to find that sensitive spot to notice the muffled voice, but when he raised his head to look into the eyes of his lover he took note and leaned down to lick the back of the aligned fingers that blocked him from Arthur's lips. _

_The Brit refused to give entry choosing instead to stifle his moans, lest the neighbours hear. _

_Francis, whose hair was beginning to soak from sweat, bent down to nibble on Arthur's ear, cooing sweet words into it. The provocative diction made Arthur's face turn a new, deeper shade of red as he started buckling into the addicting pleasure. _

_The Parisian kissed him all over before returning to his ear, promising to make him cry out. With the way Francis was pounding away at him he realized the man may end up getting what he wanted. _

_Arthur's vision was becoming hazy as the electric bolts of yearning for more echoed throughout his body. Just when he thought the feeling couldn't get any better, Francis found that spot that made him convulse uncontrollably. It was the intense poking of that vital area that made Arthur cry out._

"_Oh God!" He called out from behind his hand. He shut his eyes letting his senses take over, hoping to amplify every sensation. _

_Francis took the opportunity to remove Arthur's hand from over his mouth. He was desperate to get inside the mouth of his partner again. Locking lips he probed his tongue inside feeling every corner of luscious wetness. _

_The Parisian pulled away slightly, so that their lips were mere inches apart. He grinned, "Do you want more?"_

_Mentally, Arthur felt slightly annoyed, but physically he begged for it to go on. Had their bodies been capable he would've wished it continue for eternity. _

_Francis stopped instantaneously with his thrusting. Arthur peaked open his eyes, disappointed at the loss of friction. He was rather nervous and displeased at the greedy grin on the Frenchman's face. He knew what Francis wanted. He wanted Arthur to plead for more, to cry out for it. _

_With the upper half of his body cooling, though still twitching, and his hindsight returning he tried to wittily convince the Frenchman to continue, "You know you're just going to start again. You're the one who desperately wants it."_

_Francis responded with a quick, thick thrust, making Arthur flinched. He jerked a smile, "Oh no, I can wait. Can you?"_

_Arthur shuddered, but the heat within him was continuing to rise. He shuffled his legs a little, a testament to his hidden need for more, while he tried to outlast the other. The constant shifting of his legs was doing no good as it was making him cave to desire. _

_The Parisian leaned in and kissed him on the neck, whispering seductively in his ear, convincing him to give in and beg for more. _

_The driving force was a combination of Francis' low hum and the sudden jerking of his cock, which to this point had been left untouched. _

_Throwing his head back and arching his spine Arthur caved to the demand, "Ah- God…please."_

"_Please what?"_

_Arthur brought his head back and stared at Francis with menacing eyes. He hated and loved him all at the same time. _

"_Well?"_

_Too embarrassed and filled with pride, Arthur mumbled lowly, "Finish me."_

"_Pardon?" The Frenchman was enjoying the torture._

_Arthur was in disbelief. He's already admitted his want. He stared back with sulky eyes, hoping the Parisian would see the need in his eyes._

_Luckily the look worked as Francis gave him one more passionate kiss before pounding him furiously, hitting that delicate bundle of nerves over and over again. The succulent taste of Francis' lips combined with the satisfaction of being filled and the pressure of his hardened length being worked sent him over the edge._

"_Ah- Francis, fuck! Fuck harder!" He cried out without thought._

_The Frenchman refused to let up, mercilessly probing in and out of Arthur's sweaty body, high on the sounds his lover was releasing. When Arthur relieved the bent up pressure inside him, covering the two in milky white semen Francis let himself go, ejaculating inside his partner, filling him fully._

_Arthur's chest was rising and falling rapidly as he panted. Francis had slunk down on top of him and was resting gracefully on his body; his dick, now softened, still inside. As his vision, blurred by white sparkles, returned to him he found himself stroking the other's hair. He gulped reminding himself that what was done, was done and there was no going back._

Making their way down Oxford Street, back to their dwelling, Francis and Arthur noticed a familiar figure in the crowd. He was chatting away with enthusiasm to a group of people surrounding him.

"Isn't that the _gar__ç__on_ from the Wild hanging?" Francis pointed out.

"Yes, that's the fellow alright." Arthur nodded, "Jackson Parely. What is he up to over there, I wonder."

Blending in with the surrounding throng of people the two listened in carefully to Parely's bragging voice.

"I couldn't believe it myself! We caught the bastard! Found him hanging around some brothel on the west side."

Francis looked at Arthur with his brow raised. Arthur instinctively knew what he was getting at and nodded silently, recognizing the possibility.

"Where is he now?" A hoarse male voice shouted from the back on the other side of the gathering.

"Fear not, friends," Parley cautioned his hands in front of him, motioning patience, "He has been taken to Newgate where he will be interrogated."

"The damn nuisance should hang!" An old, wrinkly woman not too far to the right of Arthur and Francis shouted.

"Yes, ma'am," Parley agreed not looking in her direction – to the relief of Francis and Arthur, "but he must be put on trial first."

The blonde Frenchman looked over to Arthur and whispered, "You don't suppose they're talking about _him_ do you?"

Arthur gave him a look spelling out the Parisian's naivety, "This is London; he could be talking about anyone. But given that this is Parely who's speaking I wouldn't be surprised."

Parley went on, immodestly praising the Society for Reformation of Manners – Arthur had not been in their company for some time now – on their actions to clean up the streets of London. The Brit rolled his eyes and turned as his former group associate went on a sales pitch spree attempting to recruit more men for the committee.

As the two walked away together a voice from the mob made Arthur stop in his tracks, shivering at the sound.

"Well if it isn't my dear friend, Kirkland. How are you, sir?"

Arthur slowly turned around to face the young man, who had exited the mob to greet the two; his spooked face was pale, "Um, yes. Hello Parley. I am well, and you?"

"Quite pleased, I must say!" Parley grinned tipping his hat to Francis who looked rather discontent with the burden of having to wait through the conversation.

"And pray, why is that?" Arthur gave him a quizzical look without hinting he already knew.

Parley laughed in disbelief, "Have you not heard then? Surely you must have seen me speaking but a moment ago."

Arthur frowned, "My apologies, but my mind has been focused on other things as of late."

"Ah yes," Parley nodded, "I heard from Sir Gonson that you now have an internship. You must feel quite fulfilled."

Arthur fought the temptation to look at Francis. The internship was a definite blessing, but being with Francis is what made him happiest the most. He had tried to deny it for the longest time, but he could no longer imagine life without the Frenchman. He was his only friend, his only family, and the only person he could share his truest feelings with.

"Very." He smiled.

"What were you speaking about?"

Parely and Arthur looked over to Francis who gave them a stern look. They blinked; surprised the Frenchman would so willingly throw himself into the conversation.

"Well?" He stared them down, Parely in particular.

"Oh, yes." Parely adjusted himself. He looked back to Arthur, ignoring Francis, "The Society – which greatly misses your attendance, has recently found themselves in the presence of another notorious thief-taker."

Arthur was aghast. Deep inside he told himself to expect it, but when it was finally acknowledge he was shocked. "You don't mean Hitchen do you?"

"That would happen to be the one, yes." Parely beamed all too proud of the fact.

"I see…" Arthur wanted to be cheerful; the man who tortured him would be done away with, but he was also fearful. Now that Hitchen was caught he would be determined to drag every soul who ever associated themselves with him down too. Would Arthur be amongst that group?

"Well," Parley tipped his tri-cornered hat again, "I must be going. Good day to you."

He turned to Francis with a mocking smile, "Adieu good sir."

Francis glared watching the young man walk away. He turned to Arthur and whispered, "I really hate that man."

)()()()()()(

Sir John Gonson knocked on a sturdy wooden door. He waited nervously as feet scuttled inside, voices barking at each other to answer the door. When the chestnut brown barrier was finally jerked open a worn, dirty face peered out.

"Good day to you sir," Gonson started. "I have some questions I'd like to ask."

Earlier that day, Gonson had been interrogating the freshly captured Charles Hitchen:

_Standing above a bruised and bloodied man, Sir John Gonson glared into the eyes of the dark-haired captive. Behind him was a young man, no older than seventeen, scribbling words with a feathered pen into a small black book._

_Gonson looked menacing as he continued to question the prisoner. "Did you assault the prosecutor because he would not engage in lewd activities with you?"_

"_I dunno," the middle-aged man threw a chunk of spit onto the ground, "Maybe I did."_

_Gonson growled, irritated by this man's games. "You're being indicted for assault with sodomitical intent. Are you going to suggest you are guilty?"_

_Hitchen rolled his eyes, "Does it matter? Who's going to stand at the bench and defend someone like me?"_

_Gonson smirked, "So you do acquire some intelligence."_

_Charles snapped, "Shut your mouth, you lazy old fool. You talk down to me, but you're just as stupid. You don't even know your own friends."_

_Sir John raised an eyebrow, "Oh really? Pray tell."_

Hitchen had accused multiple people of the crimes of theft, murder, fraud and sodomy. The last category interested Gonson the most. The last name to be mentioned struck him with anger and shame. It was Arthur Kirkland. Hitchen told him of how one of his flunkies had robbed Arthur and, using the ironic twist, trapped the boy into a scheme to make him another lackey. Gonson was impressed when Hitchen informed him that the young man eventually failed to do it, stopped by a sense of justice. But what he said next bothered Gonson. He also suggested the Frenchman might have something to do with it.

"_He was going to do it, he was close, but that Frenchman showed up. Ruined the whole thing…"_

Gonson grinded his teeth as Hitchen gave all the details after his second run-in with Arthur; only he twisted them as a criminal would do. He neglected the constraints he put on Arthur, he somewhat neglected Arthur's refusal to be intimate and he neglected sobs and cries of the young man, replacing them with a wild tale of his growing lust for it.

_Gonson stomped his foot bellowing out his mistrust._

"_I bet the Frenchman is his 'husband'. If you don't believe me…ask his neighbours. Ask anyone who's ever seen them together." _

So here John Gonson was, standing at the door of one of Arthur's neighbours requesting they comply with his questions regarding their fellow building dweller.

The elderly woman who lived there with her husband set down a plain white porcelain cup, still dirty despite her best efforts to clean it. Gonson had accepted her offering of a cup of tea but was now regretting that decision based on the condition of the mug he'd been given. He ignored the old hag as she poured hot water for him.

"I hate to bother you fine people but this is a very important issue regarding your neighbour."

"Who?" The old man gave a look that said he was still suspicious of the visit, "Artie?"

"If," Gonson tried to disregard the stare, "by Artie you mean Arthur Kirkland, than yes."

"What did you want to know about 'im?" The wife put down the tea pot and took a seat next to her guest. It was clear she was not a Londoner as her accent was a heavy Scottish one.

"I would just like to inquire about the nature of his relationship with his lodger." Gonson stated matter-of-factly.

"The Frenchman…" the timeworn made concluded with ease.

"Yes."

"Well," the old lady started, "he seems like a nice boy, but he's French so you can't trust 'im."

Her husband nodded in agreement, "Those Frenchies…turn your back on 'em and they'll pounce on you and steal everything ya got."

"I don't think things are going very well with him and Artie anyway," The old woman rubbed her chin, "So maybe he'll leave soon."

Gonson found this detail rather interesting, "Care to explain, ma'am?"

"Oh," she looked at him with a smile, "It's just that…I think they got into a big argument last night because Artie was yelling at him and using profanity."

"Must've been fighting" the husband added, "cause there was a lot of gruntin' going on."

"Oh yes," the little, wrinkled woman continued, "I was close to sending Samuel over to stop the fight but then it ended."

"With a large scream, ma'am?"

"Why yes," she narrowed her eyes trying to recall the atmosphere, "Artie screamed at the Frenchman. Something like: _Ah! Francis, fuck hard_."

Had he not been trained in perfect composure Gonson would have dropped his jaw with his eyes bulging out of his head. Hitchen couldn't possibly have been right, could he? But who honestly tells their roommate, during a fight no less, to 'fuck hard'? To get a better understanding he would have to visit more neighbours.

Sir John stood and nodded politely to his hosts. He apologized for the interruption and waved off the old woman's attempt to have him finish his tea.

"I'm sorry, but I have other people I need to question today. Good day."

Heading down the stairs he decided to stop in at the tenants living below Arthur and Francis to hear their story – one that was more graphic and vivid. Holding back an annoyed grunt he exited the building knowing there was only one person left to speak to…and he hoped that person would give him the truth.

* * *

><p>History Notes:<p>

1) All the general details of the hanging of the sodomites is true. The men at Mother Clap's house were ratted out by a former member and they were spied on for awhile. The only thing fabricated is Francis' inner explanation that the first guy, Gabriel, was innocent. He DID continue to claim until his death that he wasn't guilty but whether or not he really was will never be answered. The physical and behavioural description of the accused are also fairly accurate. All sentences, including Mother Clap's are also factual.  
>2) In case you didn't catch it "Newman" was the sodomite who testified against the Molly House patrons.<br>3) Before his capture Hitchen was already being connected to Sodomy due to accusations made by Jonathan Wild. It was actually sodomy that he was captured and put on trial for (not theft) by the Society for Reformation of Manners. Whether or not Gonson would have actually questioned him at Newgate, I really can't say but, it would seem likely.

And French:  
>garçon - A young male (usually means boy).<p>

;-; Please review.


	11. Confrontation

Chapter Eleven: Confrontation

A/N: And the clock is winding down...only two more chapters after this...It's so sad!

A/N2: OH! And I just thought I'd point this out since it was mentioned, but Samuel Barlow is not a true historical figure. Neither is Jackson Parley. I wish I could say they were...that'd be cool. Most of the prominent figures in this story are factual though like Gonson, Wild, Hitchen, the Molly House victims, the Duc, etc.

* * *

><p>Men were chatting excitedly in the hall leading up to the main trial room of the Old Bailey. They were dressed in coats and discussing plans for the holidays – Christmas was a mere week away.<p>

Arthur had secured a seat for himself and Francis through his law advisor, Samuel Barlow. Barlow was given charge of acting for the prosecutors, who no doubt made a deal with the Society for Reformation of Manners to confess for written innocence.

When the doors opened the two made their way inside. They had seats in the front row of the middle section on the upper level where the observers sat. At first Arthur found it suspiciously convenient but dismissed his feelings knowing Barlow was an influential man and could easily attain good seats for his guests. The only thing higher up (in terms of status) was a spot beside the judge – something already reserved for Gonson and his wife.

They sat down comfortably glancing around at the other faces. Arthur cringed when he noticed Jackson Parley and his wild grin as he wooed the few women present with his stories about capturing dangerous criminals.

The announcer issued everyone to rise as the jury, barristers and judge made their way in. They sat down listening to the list of accusations against Charles Hitchen as he was dragged into court and placed on the stand.

"Charles Hitchen, you stand before the court on two charges: the first is sodomy and the second is assault with sodomitical intent." The Judge's voice rang out into the tight fitted room, "How do you plead, sir?"

"Not guilty." Hitchen glared towards Gonson, who was making a face back.

The prosecutor, Samuel Barlow, called his first and most important witness to the stand, his client. The young man, William Richardson, gave a detailed account of how Hitchen had invited him for a drink, got him intoxicated, and proceeded to take him to an inn where he was forced upon. Hitchen scoffed at the entire thing, point by point.

A few of the servants working at the inn also paraded in and gave testimony against Hitchen and his actions.

The defense then called on their witnesses. Arthur and Francis were alarmed at the number of people willing to speak on behalf of Hitchen's character. The first was a constable that admitted he saw Hitchen and Richardson go into the inn but did not hear anything regarding a physical relation between the two. The next was a well-known shopkeeper and a blacksmith. The last of them, Michael Gray, shocked Arthur the most. He was a former member of the Society for Reformation of Manners and was now acting as a freelance "justice enforcer".

"He's a good and honest man, sir." Gray, with a white mustache poking out under his nose said to the judge, "He was a key member in starting and building the Reformation of Manners. He gave his service to cleaning the streets of profanity and sin."

Francis looked over to Arthur with concern. What Gray had said couldn't really be true. Arthur glanced back with a similar look of uneasiness.

Gonson, sitting directly beside the Judge, cast an annoyed face at Gray, as if he were the evilest of men in the room.

After a quick recess a decision by the judge was made. The jury found no evidence to convict Charles of sodomy, but found him guilty of assault. His sentence was handed down as spending a day in the pillory on Catherine's Street, a twenty pound fine and six months imprisonment.

Francis sighed having hoped for more, but still satisfied that Hitchen would be committed to laying low for a while. In addition to his sentence a three year probation in which he would be watched for character was deemed necessary.

Exiting the Old Bailey, Arthur and Francis turned up the street to get a late dinner. It was already close to 5 p.m. and they were starving. Before they could get past the gate they were stopped by an aging gentleman.

"Hello Gonson." Arthur nodded walking up to his former associate.

"Arthur," Gonson nodded back, "My apologies for being abrupt, but tonight the Society is celebrating the capture and sentencing of Hitchen. We know you had trouble with him and would like to invite you to the party."

Arthur was about to decline when Gonson added, "…and I won't take no for an answer. We've been missing your presence."

Arthur looked troubled as Gonson's face was stone hard; not the soft, kind face you'd expect from someone who was truly missing the company of another. Despite the terrible feeling in his gut he agreed to attend.

As the two walked past the robust old man Francis whispered to Arthur, "Are you sure you want to go?"

"Not really," was Arthur's only reply as he looked away not wanting to discuss the issue further.

)()()()()(

Throwing on his gray, woolen frock coat, Arthur made his way to door of his flat to attend the party he'd been invited to. As he reached for the door with his right hand, he felt himself being tugged back by the left. Looking backwards his eyes caught the gaze of Francis'.

"What are you doing? I need to go."

Francis frowned, "Then I'm going with you."

"Don't be foolish," Arthur rolled his eyes, "You can't go, they'd never allow it."

"But I promised you," the Frenchman looked emotionally wounded, "that I would always be with you."

"That was before Hitchen was caught." Arthur laughed pulling his arm out of Francis' grasp, "You don't have to worry about me anymore."

"But," The Parisian carried on, "I saw the look on his face. He did not seem happy with you."

The Brit shrugged, "Perhaps he was just unhappy about what that fellow said…you know about Hitchen being in the Society. Speaking of which, I'd like to ask him about that."

Francis continued his long stare for a moment before straightening up and catching Arthur's face in the palms of his hands.

"If you're going to go," He gaped into the eyes of his lover, "than promise to be careful and come back."

Arthur was about to tell him how ridiculous that sounded when his lips were captured in a solid kiss. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the sweet taste. His heart rose as Francis moved from those lips down the jaw and onto every inch of skin covering his neck.

The Englishman wanted to fall numb and let the Frenchman pleasure him but remembering the party he gently pushed back, "Not now, I really need to get going."

Francis pouted as Arthur flipped open the door. He exited the room exclaiming, "Maybe when I get back."

)()()()()(

Arthur marched past the gates of the giant manor belonging to Sir John Gonson. He was surprised he had remembered the way there since it had been more or less a month since he'd last been to the household.

Climbing the three wide, half-circle steps he stopped at the pure white double doors to warm his freezing hands before pounding the door knocker.

Shortly after the echoing thump the door to his right was opened. A portly old lady dressed in a brown servant's gown answered and directed Arthur up the grand staircase.

The whole house shimmered in red and gold, a popular colour scheme it seemed. White was a prominent shade as all the wooden room linings were painted in the silky colour and the floor was a whitish gray marble.

He reached the top of the stairs where a blue and silver pattern took over, silver being the heavier of the two as to not clash completely with the red and gold scheme downstairs. Remembering the maid's instructions he turned left and headed down the hall towards the open door with light pouring out of it. When he reached the door he poked his head inside and knocked.

"Ah Arthur," Gonson turned, a glass of red wine in his hands, "how good of you to join us."

"Well, well," Parley threw his arms open, putting on a happy face. He wrapped an arm around Arthur's shoulder, "Kirkland, my friend, we've been waiting for you."

"Y-you have?" Arthur seemed a little unsure of the atmosphere. There was something troubling about this particular meeting but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Have some wine!" An old man handed him a glass with ruby red wine in it.

"N-no, thank you." The Brit nodded politely.

The party commenced with roasted pig, fine white bread, wine and ale and exotic fruits imported from the Americas – something only the rich could afford to enjoy. It was all sprawled out on a long, twenty person table with a satin red cloth. It made him nauseous. It was the same colour and style as the cloth he had tried to steal from the old lady at Hitchen's request.

After the group, no more than fifteen, had eaten their fill they moved to another room beside the upstairs dining room. It was much smaller and darker – save the white wooden planks covering the lower one-quarter of the walls. The wallpaper was a dark green and it emphasized the gray rocks making up the fireplace on the right side of the room.

Entering the small room Arthur noticed only one chair. It was large and plush, a grayish blue colour, which would have stood out had there been more light other than the tiny flashes coming from the heated logs of the fireplace. He figured the seat was meant for Gonson as it was one that was clearly for someone who commanded respect.

Gonson looked at Arthur and gestured his hand toward the chair, "Why don't you take a seat, Arthur."

The Englishman was baffled. He didn't belong in such a fancy chair, "No, thank you. I'm not worthy of such a grand place."

Parley laughed, "Don't be such a fool you bugger, he offered it to you."

"Parley!" Gonson snapped at the young man. Parley shrunk back and tended to his ego's wound.

Arthur was now more worried than before. He slowly made his way towards the chair, glancing back once more before he came to a complete stop in front of the furniture.

"Well," Gonson's voice had a certain demanding tone, "Sit down."

Arthur turned around and rested himself into the chair. For a moment he felt greatly satisfied as it was a very comfortable seat. His few seconds of peace were shattered when he heard the clicking of a pistol. Looking up he noticed one of the members with a small handgun.

"Um," He squeaked out, "Is…is something the matter, Gonson? I mean…Sir John…or…Sir Gonson?"

Gonson spoke over the babbling, "I just need you to answer a few questions for me."

"Pardon?" Arthur looked up at the buff old man with white facial hair.

Gonson didn't hesitate. He started right away with the harshest question, "Are you a sodomite?"

Kirkland's eyes grew wide. Filled with terror he concluded that Hitchen must have ratted on him. He opened his mouth to speak but no words came out.

"Well?" Gonson raised his voice, loud and clear, "Out with it boy! Are you?"

Parley peaked over the broad shoulder of the leader squawking out, "I don't think he's going to answer you, Gonson."

Arthur trembled as the group ganged up on him, staring him down. His eyes darted around for an escape, but found none. Taking a deep breath he decided he'd have to talk his way out. But how to get around the questions without lying?

"Why do you ask such a thing?" Arthur returned with his own question, "What evidence do you have to make such an accusation? Do you not trust me?"

"Clearly not." Parley puffed, "I always knew there was something suspicious about you; you and that Frenchman."

Arthur narrowed his eyes, still clearly uneasy, "Francis is just a guest of mine."

"A guest that has long overstayed his welcome, wouldn't you say?" Gonson shrugged, "Visitors normally only stay a week or two, but this Parisian has been with you for what? A month now?"

Arthur declined to answer by staying silent. It had been nearly a month, if not more, since the two had begun cohabitating, but it felt more like a lifetime.

"Should I assume he'll be leaving soon?" Gonson cocked a brow.

"I don't know," Arthur answered, "He has been thinking of permanently settling here."

"With you?" Parley smirked, his voice mocking and sarcastic.

"Of course not," Gonson hissed. He looked back to Arthur, "Arthur is a good boy, isn't he? He'll send the French fellow to the Duc D'Aumont."

Arthur again refused to speak, opting to remain silent and listen.

"Arthur," Gonson's voice softened, like that of a father telling a story to his son, "I'm going to tell you something. Something I'm sure you'll be interested in hearing. You know Charles Hitchen…I'm sure you do…he was once a member of this society as well."

Arthur nodded. He had actually wanted to ask Gonson about this.

Gonson continued, "He was one of our founders but it seemed the more he chased sodomites, the more they intrigued him. One day, we found him in a tavern buggering up some young lad."

_So that's why Gonson was angry with Parley_, Arthur thought to himself, _because he used the word 'bugger' and Gonson feared it would expose their plan_.

"He assured us it was nothing to be concerned over, but growing suspicions left us with no choice but to exile him from our community. Hoping he'd find a way to redeem himself we allowed him to keep his legal position as Upper City Marshal, but he seems to have used it for his own personal ambitions instead of for the greater good."

"I see…" Arthur acknowledged their contempt of Hitchen.

"So you can understand why we must ask you to give up this sinful lifestyle."

Arthur looked up, "What do you mean? You actually believe I'm a sodomite?"

"We have sufficient evidence based on testimonies by your neighbours. They've heard you engaging in _physical_ activities." Gonson frowned.

Arthur hissed lowly towards the floor, "Damn bastards…"

"It's bad enough we had one member go astray," Gonson's face continued to droop downward, "but imaging the press we'd get if two of our members turned."

"We'd lose support and funding!" Another member entered the conversation.

"Psh," An old man, whom Arthur recognized as being the impatient man from the night Wild was caught, spat, "Just torch him now and throw the Frenchman into the river."

Everyone ignored the old coot and kept their pleading eyes on Arthur.

After a moment Gonson patted him on the head, "Do the right thing, son. Do what God intended."

Arthur shifted uncomfortably, "What, exactly, would you have me do?"

"You must cast him aside; if he insists on staying with you then…you may be forced to send him to the pillars."

Kirkland stared up, wide-eyed. He could never send Francis to the pillars, "I can't."

"Public humiliation!" Parley cheered.

"Nonsense!" Gonson shouted at the young, dark haired man.

"If you don't," Gonson looked down on Arthur sternly, "then the two of you could face a jail sentence or possible hanging. There will be no Old Bailey trial…just a straight sentence."

"But you can't!" Arthur bellowed out, "It's against the law! There must be a trial!"

"We ARE the law." Gonson turned on his heels, leaving Arthur to decide his fate.

* * *

><p>Historical References:<p>

1)The trial of Hitchen in this chapter is based on documentation of his actual trial. You can find more information about it on the Old Bailey website and Rictor Norton's site. Just remember that "Hitchen" is actually spelt "Hitchin".

2) More on Hitchen's connection with the Society for Reformations of Manners coming soon...dun, dun, dun...


	12. A Difficult Decision

Chapter Twelve: A Difficult Decision

A/N: Yes…I realize it's kind of late to be giving a more in-depth look at Arthur's neighbourhood…it was overdue though. I was so busy grappling with the story that details over the scenery were forgotten or omitted. Sorry about that.

A/N2: This is the second last chapter guys! You must all be getting excited, I know I am!

* * *

><p>Arthur huddled under his grey woolen jacket as he shuffled down the street lined with shops. Large balls of fluffy snow were falling from the sky coating his scruffy blonde hair and shoulders. His breath, visible smoke against the chilly air, steamed past his brownish-red scarf.<p>

By now it was dark out, no earlier than eleven thirty at night. With the exception of the light bouncing off the moon and the thousands of stars scattered in space, the sky was pitch black.

He turned down a brick passageway that burrowed through a building. The roof of the tunnel was a stone arch with one torch inside that was not yet lit. Coming out of the tunnel he crossed a backstreet and headed into a small courtyard.

Passing the dead garden, no longer blooming with summer flowers, he travelled up three steps bound by opposing iron railings. He opened the wooden door and kicked the snow off his buckled shoes, trudged inside.

Carrying himself down the wooden corridor he turned ninety degree to his left at the end of the hall and climbed up the stiff wooden staircase. After making his way up he went down another hall and turned right, passing several wooden doors before reaching his own on the right side at the very end.

Slowly cracking the door open he noticed the room was empty. Blinking he looked around before noticing a white box on the bed. He walked up to the box and read the words inscribed, "À Francis".

"Arthur?" A voice called out to him from the bathroom/dressing room.

"Yes," Arthur huffed out, "It's me."

A joyful Francis leaped out of the room. He was dressed in a beautiful long coat made of thick linen.

Twirling around Francis spoke cheerfully, "Do you like it? The Duc D'Aumont brought it for me!"

Arthur was silently stunned by the outfit. Francis was fitted nicely into a lavishly trimmed bluish-green coat with golden yellow zigzag patterns and tiny flowers stitched all over. Underneath was a gold and white long vest, and beneath that a white silk shirt, only recognizable by the puffy ruffle poking out near his neck. His legs were covered by dark grey stockings below equally grey short trousers. The ponytail Francis had put his hair into allowed Arthur to see his sharp facial features.

"Well?" Francis grinned, eagerly awaiting Arthur's response.

"Oh, yes," Arthur replied sounded less than interested, "It's nice."

Francis frowned expecting more, "You don't like it…"

"No," Arthur sat down on the bed, "That's not it. It looks fine…I'm just in a bit of a mood right now."

The Frenchman shrugged, "I'll wait a minute. Knowing you you'll have changed by then."

The Brit narrowed his eyes and snapped, "Don't be a smartass."

Francis chuckled, "See, there you go."

Walking over to the box resting beside Arthur, Francis opened it, "You know, he brought something for you too…at my request, of course."

The Londoner looked up, "For me?"

"But of course!" The Parisian beamed, "See?"

Arthur watched Francis pull out a well-made three piece suit. It was a deep, strong red with gold trim stretching down to his knees. A white silk shirt, similar to the one Francis had was stashed in the box accompanied by a yellow silk vest with a similar stripped trim pattern as the coat.

"You'll have to buy your own stockings and shoes though," Francis looked rather sorry he couldn't have gotten a more complete outfit.

"Is that…" Arthur stumbled over his words, "really for me?"

"Well unless you want me to have it," The Parisian joked.

"Can I try it on," Arthur looked his partner in the eye, "to see if it fits?"

"On one condition." The other smirked.

Arthur could feel the knots in his stomach tightening. When he had last left the Frenchman he was trying to start a sexual episode with Arthur. Hidden a silent gulp he stared into the other's eyes, "And that would be?"

"You tell me what's wrong with you."

The Brit gave up an exasperated sigh, "Why do you always think there's something wrong with me?"

"Maybe because," Francis' lips curled in a negative direction, "you've been stressed ever since I came to live with you."

"I've been stressed my whole life," Arthur growled, "most of it anyway. It's got nothing to do with you."

The Parisian continued to frown until an idea sparked a happy smirk. He wrapped his hand around Arthur's head and drew it into his torso. He proceeded to tilt the head up kissing the forehead, then cheek, then mouth.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't forget." Arthur mumbled when Francis withdrew himself slightly from the Brit's lips.

"This is love and I am French," Francis winked, "Of course I never forget."

The Frenchmen bent back in for another kiss, this time sliding his tongue inside.

The temperature of the room quickly rose as the two roughly kiss at each other, grabbing onto and stroking various parts of the upper body. The smooching was interrupted when Francis pushed Arthur harshly back on the bed.

"N-ugh…what was that for?" Arthur chocked out. Instead of getting an answer he felt the weight of his partner on him and was swept away in another tender kiss when he looked up for an explanation.

While keeping their lips sealed Francis moved his hand down to Arthur's private area and rubbed him methodically through the fabric. He grinned, still locked in a kiss, feeling his lover stiffen up.

Breaking to take a breath, a sly smile spread across the Frenchman's face, "Are you going to let me have you again?"

The question left Arthur blushing deeply, "Maybe I'll take _you_ this time."

Francis giggled making Arthur hot in face, "You wouldn't know where to start, would you?"

The Brit looked away, his eyes narrowed, "I'm sure I'll figure it…wait a minute! W-why even do this anyway?"

The Parisian stopped laughing and frowned, "What is that supposed to mean? You love me, do you not?"

Arthur sat up slightly and sniped, "I don't recall saying that."

"You certainly seemed to love what I did a few nights ago."

Arthur looked away as his body melted at the recollection of their physical relation two nights ago. His heart pumped as blood rushed through his veins, making him feel anxious to be touched.

Francis was just as eager. Ever since that night he had anticipated making love to his partner again. He finally had Arthur in his clutches and made certain to himself he would not let go…not tonight.

Reconvening his heavy petting between Arthur's legs he slunk into another kiss. The muffled groans and twitches the Englishman were making under him made him push for more. Straddling the lad he moved both his hands to the brown vest removing it and went on to the kahki coloured shirt the Brit was wearing beneath and undid each button slowly. During the process he kept his eyes locked with Arthur's.

Calmly and gently pulling the shirt and vest back Francis kissed the centre of the Londoner's chest. His reward was a stifled but pleasuring hum. He made a line of kisses down to the bellybutton as the Brit laid back onto the mattress. He licked the heated skin all the way back up to the nape of the neck before taking a harden nipple into his mouth, sucking it gentle.

"Ah!" Arthur bolted up, "Don't do that!"

Francis blinked, "Why not?"

"B-because," Arthur blushed wildly, "It's awkward."

"Would you rather I go somewhere else?"

"Yes."

"Well ok," Francis shrugged, "But remember, you wanted it."

Without giving Arthur a second to contemplate where he intended to go, he unfastened the belt to the Brit's trousers and yanked them off. Swiftly grabbing onto the hardening cock he worked on it with his hand, listening to the sighs and moans of his paramour. Excited by the growing size he swirled his tongue around the tip before licking the length. He prolonged his actions, teasing the throbbing cock with his tongue and kissing it until Arthur could take no more.

"Ah...shit." Arthur closed his eyes forcefully, arching his back as Francis swallowed his dick. Every tug, lick and gargle marched him closer to finishing. He kept his eyes firmly shut enjoying every individual touch with his heightened senses.

With a feeling of fullness rising from his abdomen he gave warning, "I'm…I'm…coming."

The Frenchman released his hold before the Londoner could cum, causing a disappointed whimper.

"Not yet," The Parisian winked. He climbed off Arthur and stood before the side of the bed. He leaned over and grabbed Arthur's side, flipping him over.

"Ack!" The Brit pushed his hands in front of him to stop his face from colliding with the bed sheets. Before he could recover he was pulled back by the hips so that his legs were standing on the floor, but his torso was bent over on the bed, "What is this?"

"A change in position," Arthur couldn't see Francis' face but he could tell the man was grinning, "I can go straightforward and not on an angle like last time. It will feel even better."

Arthur looked back to witness the Parisian unbuttoning the gold and silver vest he was wearing and pulling down his trousers to reveal his erection. This was the second time Arthur was seeing it and the size still amazed him.

Placing one hand on the Brit's back, Francis circled his index finger with the other around Arthur's entrance a few times before he pushed inside.

Arthur winced feeling slightly uncomfortable as the digit was thrust in and out of him. More pressure came as the second finger pushed inside, adding some pain to the insertions. The two fingers moved together pushing back and forth, occasionally stopping to scissor and scoop.

"Are you ok with two?" Francis asked, trying to hide his growing need to be inside the other.

"I-I guess," Arthur looked back, still feeling the blended feeling of toxic pleasure and biting pain crawling down his legs.

Francis made no follow ups nor addressed any insecurities. With his own cock pulsing for action he lined it up with the stretched hole and injected himself.

"Ah!" Arthur grabbed the bed sheets, holding so tight his knuckles turned white. He took a few deep breaths adjusting to the position. He gasped in when Francis pushed in even farther, hardly believing the man still had more to go in. The Brit shuddered when Francis pulled out slowly and then shoved himself back inside. As the procession picked up speed he choked out short, but audible, moans.

Sliding his hand from Arthur's back to his hip and attaching another hand on the other side, Francis picked up the pace again, pushing harder each time. He grunted lowly every time their flesh slapped together as he tunneled deep inside his lover.

"Fuck," Arthur hissed still clutching at the bed sheets. This time around the pain had been short-lived and he was riding fully on desire and pleasure. The way Francis filled him put him in an entranced state of ecstasy as nothing else in the moment mattered more than being fucked uncontrollably.

The Parisian pulled out his ponytail afore bending over to mark the Brit's back. His damp hair fell over his face, tickling the Londoner when he leant down to kiss, lick and bite him. He drew up his left arm from Arthur's hip and grasped it around the man's vibrating cock. Arthur gave a sigh of relief that his manhood was finally being attended to once again. While continuing to rock their bodies together, Francis skillfully massaged Arthur's dick in his hand, teasing it by pumping slowly before speeding up, only to slow the pace again.

"Oh God," Arthur cried out; the combination of the burning inflation in his cock and the deep thrusts inside him were sending millions of passionate shocks throughout his figure.

Francis kissed Arthur's shoulder blade and whispered seductively into his ear, "Do you like it?"

"Mmmm," The Brit could barely form words, but the noise suggested he had completely submitted himself to Francis' will.

The Frenchman whispered to him again, "Do you want more?"

The same mumbled noise tumbled out, begging for further pleasure.

Once again, Francis took his focus off Arthur's cock and placed his left hand back on the man's hip. His thrusts, which had softened and slowed while he tended to Arthur's other need, could now return to a quicker stride, hammering the Brit's insides.

With the strength of each thrust making Arthur dazed with lust he opened his eyes only to be stonewalled by white sparks blocking his view. He tried to shake his head, but they would not cease their control on his vision. Without warning he felt Francis' cock slightly rub against his prostate. The sensation made him weak in the knees. Desperate to have that intense high again he called out for more, "Yes! Right there…Oh God, that's it! Fuck me, please!"

The Parisian didn't hesitate as he continued pounding into Arthur's erotic nerves, sweat dripping down his face.

Arthur whimpered, hollered and gasped for air as the same area inside him was hit again and again, making him lose the ability of coherent thought. His mind was numbed further when his cock was grabbed for a third time and pumped furiously, "YESYESYESYESYES!"

The high of being jerked off and fucked became overbearing, causing Arthur to release himself. He buckled and convulsed as Francis continued to shove himself inside before he filled Arthur with his own milky white liquid.

Francis sighed, and pulled out, flopping on the bed to join Arthur who was panting non-stop. He moved in and kissed the Brit's forehead. When he pulled away he noticed tears in Arthur's eyes.

"Arthur? I'm sorry, was that too much for you?"

"No," The Briton sniffled.

"Then what?"

Arthur's lips trembled for a moment as tears continued to cloud his eyes. He lunged at Francis catching him off guard. Holding the Parisian tightly he cried, "I don't want you to go! I want you to stay with me! I love you too much!"

Francis blinked in confusion. He was happy to know Arthur shared his feelings, but what the Brit said was troubling. Pulling the scruffy blonde off him he asked, "What do you mean?"

Arthur's eyes were turning red and puffy as he breathed deeply trying not to break down and weep, "Gonson found out…about us."

Francis sighed harshly, "It feels like everyone knows. Doesn't this country have any respect for privacy?"

"He wants me to send you away," Arthur squeaked out, "…forever."

The Frenchman placed a hand on the Londoner's face, wiping away a tear as it fell down his face, "I said I would never leave you, remember?"

"He said…if you didn't go…he'd put you in the pillars." Arthur added, choking on his emotions, "I don't want that, I don't. I don't want them to hurt you."

Francis frowned, his heart torn. He understood Arthur's concern as yesterday a man had been placed in the stocks for perjury and was nearly bashed to death by the heavy objects, hard fruits and stones, being thrown at his head.

Thinking to himself quietly he came to a resolve, "The Sir Gonson, is a gentleman, non?"

"Well in the political sense," The Brit was gaining control over his emotions, "Why?"

"Parce que" The robust Frenchman shone with enthusiasm, "I will challenge him to a gentleman's duel."

Arthur's eyes nearly popped out of his head, "You'll what? Do you even know HOW to use a pistol?"

"Non," the other shrugged, "but I have a good eye for detail so I won't miss."

His emotions turning from sadness to anger the Briton narrowed his eyes, "You're a damn fool. You'll only get yourself killed."

"Well," Francis started, "I can leave now and be spiritually dead or I can stay and take my chances on a duel."

Arthur dropped his eyes to the bed sheets where the absorbed cum starting to dry, he knew what Francis was saying was true. He considered offering to take the other's place but he had no more experience with a firearm than any other poor man from a metropolitan city.

The Parisian didn't wait for a response. He got up and made his way to the only other room in the flat. There he grabbed a small beige cloth to wipe himself up with it before taking off the rest of his lavish garments and replacing them with casual sleepwear. Coming back into the room he dropped another set of clothes on the bed for Arthur to put on.

"I'll issue the challenge tomorrow." He said sitting down at the desk, giving his companion some space. Taking out an ink feather he dipped the tip in black liquid and scribbled a message onto a piece of parchment, "Monsieur Duc D'Aumont can send the letter, I'm sure he will understand."

Throwing the white shirt over his head, Arthur looked over to Francis and watched him write the letter. He said a silent prayer that, despite their terrible sin, they would have God's favour.

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><p>Historical Notes #1: Committing sodomy was a SEVERE offense in 18th century England, however, because it was hard to prove that penetration and ejacuation had happened the offense was lightened to "assault with sodomitical intent" which was not a capital offense. Most of the time "assault with sodomitical intent" meant fines and a day in the pillar as well as jail time. Most of the sodomy cases I'm familiar with are ones where a sodomitical offender tries to attract someone who's not a sodomite and the person testifies against them. Arthur and Francis are an interesting case...but I can't really explain what willcan/would happen to them until the very end...

Historical Notes #2: The concept of duels goes all the way back to the 11th century. During the 17th and 18th century duels were usually fought with swords or rapiers. Dueling was only meant for the upper class and each participant had what was called a 'second' whom, prior to the 1600's also had to duel. They were common amongst military officers. It wasn't until the late 18th century that they switched from blades to pistols ( = P Which means once again I've distorted history a little bit...sorry). Duels were not about killing your opponent but rather showing that you had the guts to put your life on the line for your honour - which, in the end, restored your honour. It is this strong sense of honour and the creation of civil rules within the duel that ties duels to mannerism and etiquette in the Early Modern period. However, in some places the practice of duelling was made illegal by local governments so the participants often did it away from prying eyes.

Interesting Fun Fact:

While looking up punishments for sodomites I found an interesting case about an English sea captain named Edward Rigby who tried for sodomy in 1698 but acquitted. A member of the (wait for it...wait for it...) Society for Reformation of Manners named Thomas Bray was not satisfied with the result so he hired a young man, William Minton, 19, to lure out Rigby. In due time Rigby was caught again and put on trial. During the trial Minton claimed in his story that Rigby had said Louis XIV, the Sun King of France, was a sodomite (Remember Chapter Five?). However, there is no historical record about Louis being a sodomite, though this younger brother, Philippe, Duc d'Orleans was notorious for being homosexual.

I also found that sometimes a man's...ahem...private place was sometimes refered to as their "Privy Member". Haha!


	13. The Way the World Is

Chapter Thirteen: The Way the World Is…

A/N: Well you guys...it's here. The finale. Before the chapter starts I just want to thank everyone for reading my longest story ever (thus far). This story broke records on my personal story list including: most reviews, most hits, and most alerts. Thanks a bunch guys! I'm actually quite sad that we've come to this point...sad that it's over. Lastly, when you get to the end please don't throw a brick at me... (a bit of foreshadowing, I know).

If those who have been reading this story and NOT reviewing could leave a final review of the overall story in this chapter that'd be greatly appreciated. I'm really excited about this being the first, long story I've completed and I'd LOVE to get feedback. It'll help me determine how I should write future stories.

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><p>The duel was set in the countryside outside London. Small trees, void of summer leaves, scattered themselves along the rolling hills. The ground was still covered with snow from a few days ago. It had taken longer than expected to get from the city to the rural area because the streets were clogged with folks buying last minute Christmas gifts, a mere three days away.<p>

Francis and Arthur stood face-to-face with Sir John Gonson, who had agreed to the duel; the price for his defeat being his silence. His second and companion was Jackson Parley, who had a lot of experience with pistols as his father was renowned for his love of hunting. Gonson also had a considerable amount of experience using a gun though not from hunting. He had been in a duel once before as a younger man and received training from an expert.

On the two lover's side, Francis would be lining up for the duel with Duc D'Aumont acting as his second. The Duc had never taken part as a dueler before, but had participated as a second over five times. Four times in France, once in England.

Arthur was to be a spectator. He had fretted this moment for several days. He watched the two shake hands and head back to their loading stations. The Duc handed France his small metal pistol and Parley did the same for Gonson. They both took their time filling the barrel and checking for the slightest flaw that might obstruct the outcome. After feeling satisfied by the condition of their firearms they marched towards the other until they came face-to-face again.

Gonson stared his opponent down, "This is such foolishness. You'll both be caught eventually anyway. And besides, you'll ruin Arthur's future. Is that really what you want?"

Francis stared back, eyes narrowed in a glare, "It seems his future will be tarnished either way. He doesn't want me to leave and I promised I'd stay with him."

"Suit yourself," The Justice of the Peace grumbled, "Turn around and pace three steps."

Francis turned away. On the count of three they both took three giant steps away from each other. Because Francis had never used a gun before he was given first shot. He swirled around and shot point blank.

"Gonson!" Parley called out.

"I'm fine." Gonson grabbed his arm. He had been shot once before, but it was long ago. The pain from his arm echoed throughout his body.

Gonson lined up his own shot and, with a bead of sweat trickling down his face, the pressure in his damaged arm building up, he released the bullet.

"FRANCIS!"

Arthur stared wide-eyed as the Frenchman fell to his knees. He shook, hesitating for a moment until he heard his companion's voice.

"I'm ok," Francis looked back, trying to downplay his winced face with a smirk, "He just…grazed my shoulder."

"Grazed, my ass," Arthur ran over and held the Parisian, "the bullet is firmly lodged in there."

"Nothing I'll die from." Francis continued to smile. He had never been shot before and the pain was more intense than anything he imagined.

The Briton glanced back at D'Aumont and demanded ready their return so they could have Francis treated as soon as possible.

"Wait," Francis laid a hand on his mate, "we have to decide who won."

"It's a draw," Arthur and Francis brought their gaze upon Parley who was wrapping Gonson's exposed arm with white cotton material.

"We should get in contact soon then." Francis stuttered out as Arthur helped him get up.

"There's no need for that."

The two young men looked at Parley with confusion.

"I wasn't expecting a draw," Gonson rounded his arm after the bandages were tightly on, "I account my wound to my old age, not your skill, as if you had any."

Francis glared at the old man while Arthur asked for clarity, "Why don't we need to get in contact? Can I expect that you forfeit?"

"Most certainly not," Gonson acknowledged, "We took the liberty of responding to an inquiring about your dear Frenchman."

"Yes," Parley added, "it seems your beau is a runaway. His father's been looking for him for some time."

Both young men's eyes bulged at the information given.

"W-what do you mean, runaway?" Arthur looked at Francis for an answer, his face covered in disappointment, "I thought you said you were on vacation; a grand tour of Europe."

Francis looked away in disgrace. He had said many things to Arthur that were baked in half-truths. He was certainly the son of a wealthy Frenchman and his family had tried to force him into a marriage, but it was that particular reason that he fled. He had no feelings for the young woman he was supposed to marry, they had nothing in common and their personalities clashed.

"I'm sorry," He whispered, unable to draw the courage to look back up.

"We made a deal," Gonson said, "Pride for Pride."

Arthur glared, "Pray tell."

"I'd give him, the Duc d'Aquitaine, his son back…alive…and he'd take the boy away destroying any questions that damn Parliament might have about my organization. We've already had one member screw up; we don't need another falling off the track."

Arthur was now annoyed, "I never requested to join your group! You dragged me into it!"

"There's a reason why." The Justice of Peace stated matter-of-factly.

"Why?"

"Because of what he did...or rather who he tried to defend." Gonson looked away, with silent anger and what looked like shame.

Arthur blinked, confused, "He?"

"Your father."

Arthur's eyes went wide. He was now more confused than ever. Originally he was told that his father had upset the Attorney General and was sent away to the countryside; beyond that he knew little else. He stammered, "W-what…"

Before the young blonde could get his question out Gonson scoffed and filled in the details, "The Lord Chancellor had an affair with a servant girl and got the wrench pregnant. She ran to your father who was the only person who would take her case; a plead for the Chancellor to recognize the child and care for it. Before the case could even catch rumour he, your mother and the woman were expelled from the city."

Arthur dropped to his knees, numb from shock. A million thoughts rang through his head, but not a single one was comprehensible. The loudest one was how his judicial system, still flawed but better than what most had, destroyed his life. Others screamed at him that his mission to change, or at least try to change, the structure was futile. Nothing would ever change…

"That's fine and dandy, as you Englishman say," Francis spoke up, "But what does this have to do with you and your society?"

"Easy," Gonson answered, "It's politics."

"You want his position don't you?" The addition of the Duc D'Aumont surprised Francis and Arthur, who for a second had forgotten his presence.

"I've seen Arthur's school papers on lawful defense and felt with a good tutor he may have the courage to bring the Chancellor to face his faults – step down from his position with dignity at the very least."

Francis snarled, "You wanted to use him!"

"And prey tell, how are you any different?" Parley intruded, "You used him as a toy to escape your own troubles."

Francis gave an unnerving look. It was never his intention to use the Brit, but when put into words it sounded rather truthful. He _was_ trying to find a reason to never go back home. Arthur became that reason.

The sound of trotting horses and a swaying carriage a short distance away caught everyone's attention. Looking to the path that led to the patch of land they held their duel on a fancily carved coach could be seen approaching.

Francis shuddered to think of who was inside. He had no doubt of who it was. The blue flag with a dove crest gave it away.

The coupe stopped in front of the dead space between Francis and Gonson. The man driving the carriage jumped out of his seat and hurried to open the door for the figure inside.

Stepping out, the tall, handsome man squinted his eyes against the bright sun. He was dressed in a luxurious, loose fitting coat that travelled down to his knees. It was silk white and gold, decorated with burgundy red around the neckline and down the edge where the buttons were knotted neatly with the holes meant to tie the coat closed. The colour also covered the open edges around the end of the sleeves and rim around the bottom of the coat. In his hand was a black hat with red feathers around the edge. The white scarf around his neck was poofed and wavy.

"D-duc…" Francis stuttered.

The Duc looked at Francis, not impressed with what he was seeing. His son was covering a bloody shoulder and standing far too close to a scrawny Englishman. Annoyed, he looked to Gonson, his French accent thick, "Why has my son been harmed?"

Gonson shrugged to the best of his ability, his arm still in pain, "I never expected he'd actually manage to hit me. I had to repay in kind."

The Duc D'Aquitaine twisted his lips, uncertain to whether he could agree. Eventually dropping the issue he called back to Francis, "_Entres la cariage_! _Sur-le-champ_!"

"Non!" Francis tightened himself, holding back his fear of his father. He could not meet the demand to simply get in the horse-drawn cage and leave everything behind.

"Francis!" This time the young Parisian could not contain his fright, "_C'est un ordres_!"

"J'ordonne que tu me laisses tranquille!" Francis bellowed back, though his lack of confidence was showing, "At least let me talk to Arthur first."

"…First?" The Brit was not liking what he was hearing, "What do you mean, first?"

Francis frowned. He attempted to place a hand on Arthur's shoulder but pulled back realizing his hand was covered in blood from holding his shoulder, "Arthur."

"Don't say anything." Arthur fretted this moment. He wasn't ready to confront the possibility.

"I cannot leave and not say anything."

"Then don't leave."

The blonde Frenchman looked back at his père who was scolding the Duc D'Aumont for failing to inform him of his son's location and for further acting as an accomplice in his continued stay. He turned back to Arthur, "This is very difficult."

The Briton's lips trembled at the serious look on his lover's face. First the "justice" system took his parents and now they were taking Francis. He sniffled, tears swelling in his eyes.

"Non, non, non," Francis pressed his forehead against Arthur's, "Do not cry."

"How can I not?" Arthur's voice was becoming shaky.

"Because," the Parisian thought for a moment, "I will come back someday. After all, you do have to take me to a horse race, remember?"

The Londoner choked up a laugh, remember their day at the circus and Francis' keenness to experience everything Arthur had to show him. He wasn't sure he could wait that long, if that moment ever even came, "I don't want to be alone."

"You are not alone," Francis now too had tears streaming down his cheeks, "I will always be with you – maybe not in person, but in other ways."

Returning to his coach the Duc cleared his throat harshly; signally it was time to leave. Francis turned to comply with the call when he was stopped by a hand grabbing his arm. He looked back, saddened by the sorrow and pain in Arthur's face. In that moment he wanted to hold the Briton tightly and whisper sweet words of encouragement and happier things. He wanted to tell his father to _va chier_ but he'd be sure to get a sound beating for doing so. His face dropped as he quietly said, "Je suis désolé."

He turned away before a rebellious thought brought him back, "biz, biz, biz."

Arthur blinked, his eyes still puffy and red, "Why are you making a buzzing noise?"

"Not buzz, biz!"

Arthur was still confused.

"Ugh," Francis' moan dragged out, "kiss, you damnable idiot."

"Hey! Don't call me a –" The Brit was unable to finish his sentence as he was cut off by a strong kiss to the lips. The motion made those on scene, except Duc D'Aumont, cringe.

Francis entered the coach and disappeared behind the door as it was shut by the driver. Arthur stepped forward as if to stop them from leaving but was held back by a sturdy grip. He whirled around to stare into the eyes of Sir John Gonson.

"Let him go, Arthur. It's for the best." Gonson gave a look as though he cared, "You have your career to think about, your internship with Barlow. You have your whole life ahead of you."

The young Briton shook the older man off, "You mean I have _your_ career to think about…"

Arthur watched as the carriage carried away one of the few people who ever meant something to him in his life. Breathing deeply he gave a short nod to Duc D'Aumont to thank him for his assistance before trotting over with Gonson to where Parley stood a little ways off. Glancing once more behind him to the disappearing coach, he vowed to continue this path not for Gonson, but for himself. He promised to himself that he would rise to the top and change the system and to be reunited with his lost companion, if not for love, then at least friendship.

END

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><p>I thought I'd be nice and give you the translations for this chapter:<p>

"Entres la cariage! Sur-le-champ!" – Get in the carriage! Right now!  
>"C'est un ordres" – That's an order!<br>"J'ordonne que tu me laisses tranquille" – I demand that you leave me alone!  
>père – Father<br>va chier – Fuck off/Leave me!  
>"Je suis désolé" – I am sorry.<br>"biz, biz, biz" – kiss, kiss, kiss.

Historical Notes:

1) Dueling Pistols: They were small and usually triggered by flint or black powder. They would fire a small musket ball. Funny enough they were often sold in pairs...which when you think about it is kind of strange...since the rule was that the person you were dueling had to be of similar or equal status, and that it was usually the upper class or military officers who duelled, you'd think they'd all be able to afford their own single pistol. ...Why would you buy a pistol for your opponent to use? LOL, Early Modern mannerism... ANYWAY, duelling pistols had large calibres (diametre of the barrel), bullets weighted close to half an ounce and could travel up to 800 feet per second (240 m/s) when shot. Because of the lack of medical care in those days, a shot could be fatal and often was. A good example of a gun fatality would be the famous duel between Alexander Hamilton (American Secretary of Treasury) and Aaron Burr (American Vice President) in 1804. Duelling became popular in England, France and the United States of America in the mid-eighteenth century. The ironic thing is that King Louis XIII outlawed duelling in France in 1626... (it still continued though despite the monarchs harsh punishment of those caught doing it)

2) Last time I failed to give you info on Hitchin and the Society for Reformation of Manners. Here it is: It is unclear as to when Hitchin/Hitchen joined the Society for Reformation of Manners. What is known is that he used his position as a member (as well as his position as Deputy Marshall - which is the equivalent to our modern Chief of Police) to engage in criminal activity such as blackmailing/threatening others to commit crimes for him, then turn in those criminals later for a reward (thief-taking, essentially) as well as getting a reward for returning the stolen goods. Being a member of the Society for Reformation of Manners gave him access to their database and since the lewd underworld and organized crime often went hand-in-hand it was a jackpot win for him. Despite being married he was seen hanging around various sodomite hang outs (some suspect he could have been asking for protection money but this is not recorded) and when he had a falling out with Jonathan Wild, Wild wrote about a time when Hitchin took him to a Molly House near the Old Bailey where Hitchin engaged in sodomitical activities. Hitchin's credibility was wrecked, but he maintained his position as Deputy Marshall and was even in charge of the execution of his old crime partner, Jonathan Wild. Eventually, as you know, Hitchin was caught and tried as a sodomite...

Fun Fact: In 1772 English newpapers held a debate when respected citizens suggested that homosexuality be decriminalized as long as it was between two consenting adults.

**It's kind of a weak ending but…endings have never been a strong point for me.**

**Again, please review!**


	14. Epilogue

An Illegal Affection – Epilogue

A/N: Since it was in such high demand I'm writing an epilogue (mostly because you guys didn't like my sad ending. Sorry, but I have a wild fascination with sad endings for FrUk…).

Don't be frightened by the size of this chapter! Only 3,086 words are from the story, the rest are historical notes, translations, fun facts and a closing statement about the story.

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><p>Arthur stared up at the immaculate estate on the rolling hills of Aquitaine. He had been dreaming for several nights what the grand home would look like. He stood there studying every detail of the light pink home, with its two pearl pillars framing the grand patio where the white double doors rested. Forty-five years later and his blonde hair was replaced with silver grey, though the scruffy texture was still present. His shiny emerald green eyes were now dark and surrounded by wrinkled skin.<p>

After Francis had been taken away Arthur went back to a structured routine, though it was an irregular quiet one. He had, grudgingly, assisted Gonson in obtaining the position of Attorney General and Gonson remained in the spot until his death in 1765. After Arthur had completed his internship under Samuel Barlow he opened his own practice. As a reward for his help in moving up the ladder Gonson supported and promoted Arthur's law firm. Despite the manners and the pleasant attitude Arthur tried to wear each day he could not fully mask his detest for the man – and they both new it.

Gonson also introduced to and, to put it lightly, arranged a marriage for him to the daughter of a well-to-do family. They managed to produce three sons: Alfred, Matthew and Peter. Alfred was headstrong like his father and a year after his eighteenth birthday he headed across the ocean to the colony of Massachusetts to become a merchant. There was much talk of war breaking out in the colonies and Alfred had gotten caught up in it. Despite all the letters Arthur sent warning him not to stir up trouble, Alfred, who eventually settled on being a printer, continued to defy both his father and the Mother Land. His youngest, Peter, was a rambunctious boy, always needing attention. He was skilled with his hands and had recently made his way out to Southern Wales to jumpstart an ironworks business. If Alfred had gotten Arthur's stubborn, aggressive attitude, his middle son, Matthew, had definitely gotten his brains. As much as Arthur loved Matthew there was something terrifying about him. It was Matthew that reminded Arthur of _him_ the most. Silky, wavy blonde hair and sparkly blue eyes with a light, soft face and calm demeanor. In so many ways he was just like Francis. From a young age the boy had grown the habit of asking his father why his attitude would suddenly change. He would also, from time to time, speak French as he was studying the language at school by choice. It was during these moments Arthur had to excuse himself and shut himself up in his room. Matthew, too, eventually moved away. He was given a position as a translator in Quebec after France lost the colony of Canada to Britain in the Seven Years War. Arthur wondered if Francis had any children…

The Brit slowly carried himself up the stairs, pausing at each step in hesitation. A million questions swirled in his head: Would Francis recognize him? Did the Frenchman even remember him? Did he still care for him?

Reaching the final step, standing in front of the door, he sighed and spoke quietly to himself, "I hope this isn't too awkward."

He raised a fist to grab the silver knocker and tapped the door with it. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the worst.

A young woman, still in her teens, opened the door. Her sharp blue eyes were vibrant against her pale skin and jet black hair. She stood rather still in her light blue dress and dark boots, waiting for the old man to say something.

"Um, yes." Arthur started, "Hello. My name is Arthur Kirkland. I'm looking for Francis Bonnefoy."

She blinked and nodded, recognizing the name of the man the visitor was inquiring about, "Un moment, si vous plait."

The young woman ushered herself back into the depth of the home calling for someone as she rushed down the hall. When she returned a young gentleman accompanied her.

"Sorry, sir," He started in broken English, "The maid does not speak English."

"Oh," Arthur said nonchalantly, "Well, there's no problem with that."

"It is my understanding," the gentleman continued, "that you are looking for the Duc."

"The Duc?" Arthur questioned. Recalling their last day together Arthur remembered that France's father was someone very important. He was a duc himself…ah! Duc D'Aquitaine! Arthur was rather embarrassed that he had not figured that out sooner. He knew about Francis's father being the Duc but hadn't made the connection that Francis, being the only son of the Duc, would inherit the title. Arthur shook his head, feeling silly that he had not put it together sooner – it was rather uncharacteristic of him, a sign of age, surely.

"Would you like to see him?" The man had carried on while Arthur was lost in thought. This was the second time the gentleman had to ask the question.

"Oh, yes. Please." Arthur smiled, "We're good friends, he and I."

The maid frowned, she must have thought it was strange that a Brit and a Frenchman could be friends, especially after they had just fought a major war with each other – and another one was threatening.

The gentleman seemed much friendlier as he guided Arthur through the grand home. He led the Brit past the winding, grand staircase positioned perfectly in the centre of the foyer and down the hall leading to the back of the home, following the bright red carpet. Along the way Arthur admired all the fancy paintings – some were of women, others fruit and others still were locations. Occasionally, the travelling pair would cross paintings of Francis's family members. He passed one that he was sure not to miss, Francis's father, the man who took Francis away all those years ago. The former Duc had long passed away – leaving only one son to carry on his legacy.

At last they finally reached their destination, the sunroom at the back of the house. In the room were two visible figures, the first a woman with long blonde, braided hair and sharp facial features. She looked incredibly wealthy and, on first impressions, rather snobby in her light pink dress. The person across from her was…

"Francis…" Arthur whispered to himself.

"It will just be a moment," The gentleman directed him to sit in a seat placed near the door of the sunroom, "The Duc is just finishing a visit with his daughter, she's scheduled to go back to Monaco this evening."

Ah…so Francis did have children then. Arthur couldn't help but chuckle thinking of what kind of expression the Frenchman must have been wearing when he had relations with his wife. If he really didn't like the woman as much as he claimed he didn't it'd be rather comical to see.

Arthur sat patiently, almost dozing off. He was stirred when the woman passed him barely even acknowledging his existence. He watched her walk down the hallway, disappearing out of sight.

"Arthur?"

Suddenly a sharp jolt shot through the heart of the Englishman. The voice he had been waiting to hear for forty-five years abruptly crawled its self into his ear, warming his soul.

"Is that you?"

Francis's voice was just as confident as it had been so many years ago. Despite that, Arthur was still afraid to turn around and face his long-lost companion.

"Arthur, did you really come all this way just to ignore me? If so why don't you go home."

"Naff off you damned idiot! Do you really think I'd come all this way for nothing!" Arthur whipped himself around and stared into the deep blue eyes of the Frenchman. His heart stopped. Those eyes were just as hypnotic as they had been so long ago.

Francis laughed, "You are still the same, my friend. I am sure your temper has caused you much trouble, non?"

"Well," Arthur stood slowly as to not disjoint his knees, "I probably wouldn't have if you had been around. You always knew how to calm me down."

Francis frowned. He couldn't think of a good response for that. In truth he had wanted to go back, he had even tried, several times! But no matter how hard he tried something or someone always got in the way. After a while he just stopped trying, thinking that Arthur had probably forgotten about him anyway. Imagine his surprise when his first cousin (twice removed) informed him that an old gentleman named Arthur Kirkland was waiting to speak with him. The Frenchman could barely contain his excitement.

"The most important thing is that you are here now." Was the only replied he could muster up.

"Yes, I suppose." Arthur nodded. Looking back to the hallway he imposed himself, "So that was your daughter, was it?"

"Yes, Marguerite." Francis answered.

"So you did it then," Arthur turned back, "You married that woman…"

"Ugh," the Frenchman sighed, "She is dead now and good riddance to her."

Arthur frowned, "That's a terrible thing to say. My wife wasn't anything spectacular but I wouldn't go as far as to wish her dead."

"You have a wife?"

"Had, actually. She's passed now as well." Arthur couldn't bring himself to tell Francis about how he had met his wife. He didn't want Francis looking down on him.

"I never pictured you as a family man." Francis said blandly.

"Really?" The Londoner blink, "Well I have three sons, so obviously I am."

Francis laughed, "Having children does not make one a family man. Look at Rousseau, he had children and then abandoned them. Brilliant mind, terrible father."

"My sons are all very well-to-do."

"And so is my daughter…but unfortunately she has her mother's attitude."

It was Arthur's turn to laugh, "Well all of my children have my attitude."

Except one…

"Oh," Arthur began to correct himself, "Well there is Matthew. I think you'd like him. He speaks French you know."

"Oh really," Francis responded with intrigue, "That's very good. Is he in France?"

"No. Canada."

"I see." Francis paused for a moment before he was reminded of something. "I've been waiting for a while now."

"Yes, yes, we both have."

"No," Francis corrected the Brit, "I mean _biz, biz, biz_."

Arthur blinked, "Why are you making buzzing noises?"

The Frenchman broke out into laugher, "You know, you said something like that last time too."

The Brit closed his eyes and thought hard. Suddenly it dawned on him and he blushed, "Ah, that's right."

"Well?"

The pinkness in his cheeks brightened, but Arthur was just as eager as his counterpart. He looked around to make sure the young gentleman who guided him in was nowhere in sight before he leant in for a kiss.

When their lips met a flood of memories swept them: the day they met, the fire at the inn, the wax museum and the circus. Other memories came back too some raunchy, others heartbreaking.

Breaking apart Francis maintained his gentle smile, "How long do you plan to stay here?"

Arthur smirked in response, "How long can I?"

The French laughed lightly, "However long you want."

"Well then," The Brit had been carrying a suitcase with him as he intended to stay for a fair amount of time, provided he could, "You stayed at my home for about a month, I expect you to pay it back."

"I don't owe you a month, Arthur."

The old Englishman looked up; removing his eyes from the suitcase he placed on the chair where he had waited minutes before. He stared at Francis with a sort of sad worry.

The Frenchman continued to smile softly, "I owe you forty-five years."

"Ugh," Arthur moaned aloud, "You really haven't changed at all, have you? Still spill out all your cheesy nonsense. I shouldn't be surprised…you are French."

Francis giggled, "We do like our cheese."

Arthur frowned at his lover's tacky statement but it brought back a feeling inside of him, "Speaking of cheese, you wouldn't happen to have anything to eat would you? I'm starving."

"But, of course, mon amour."

)()()()()()(

The cook placed the roasted meat on the table with a face that clearly showed he felt awkward. Arthur had requested roast beef and the French chef was not thrilled to make such an unrefined meal. Francis brushed off his concerns telling the middle-aged man that Arthur was a guest and was welcome to have whatever he'd like. Of course, that meant taking a trip to the market a half hour carriage ride away and searching every nook and cranny to find even a tiny clump of the English "delicacy".

Taking a whiff of the beef he sliced a piece off and placed it on his plate a long with vegetables and bread – fancy white bread. It was no wonder the French government had financed a special police unit just to monitor the making and distributing of the stuff.

Looking across the long table – long enough to seat twenty-two people- Arthur stared at a variety of foods. Some he was familiar with: potatoes, peas, cucumbers, onions, olives, peppers, mushroom; others he was not: madeleine cakes, smooth and flavoured ice sorbets and a strange type of strawberry he'd never seen before (he was used to the Wild Strawberry, or Fragaria Vesca). There were also a variety of sauces he'd never seen or tasted before like buchamel.

He reached over to grab onto the sterling silver ladle sitting in a pot of mushroom soup. He poured himself a bowl and smelt the concoction before taking a bite. The creamy texture on his tongue made him melt inside.

"By the look on your face I can see that you are enjoying yourself." Francis smiled, his chin resting on his hands that were neatly folded together, propped up by his elbows.

Arthur frowned, "You shouldn't have your elbows on the table, it's not proper etiquette."

The Frenchman shrugged but said nothing.

After finishing their meal: soup, salad, main course, dessert and all, Francis ushered Arthur up the stairs to settle him into one of the guestrooms.

Opening the door to one of the many guestrooms on the second floor Francis carried in Arthur's bag – despite the Englishman's refusal for help – and settled them on the queen sized bed.

The room was sharp splash of red. The walls were red, the bed duvet was red, the bed curtains were, the floor was a red wooden colour and the –

"What the devil is that!" Arthur pointed to a long, wooden structure that looked like a somewhat like a child's riding horse.

Francis laughed, "It's a bidet. You use it to wash yourself after you've…uh…relieved yourself."

"Is that so…" Arthur was studying the funny looking device with curiosity. He had never seen a bidet before and it was rather intriguing.

"Well, it's almost nightfall so…I'll leave you to rest." Francis nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The sky beyond the window was darkening meaning a candle would have to be lit. Arthur crossed the floor to the bedside table to fetch some matches when an idea dawned on him.

)()()()()()(

Francis sat comfortably under the covers and duvet of his king sized bed. In his hands was a report from the doctor a village over. It informed him of the death of one of his long time servants, Jacque, who, in his last few months, suffered terribly from smallpox. The disease was spreading fast around Europe and no one was spared, including kings.

Francis had begun to show signs of it little more than a year ago but had partaken in the new practice of variolation, by which a little bit of the pus of someone who was infected is inserted into the wound of a healthy person so their body would learn how to fit it. By allowing himself to be exposed to it while healthy and in small doses his body learned to fight it and he was able to overcome the disease when it struck him. Luckily, there were no lasting scars.

Taking off his glasses he placed them on the side table along with the paper. He sighed making a mental note that he would have to find a replacement servant. Blowing out the candle he slid farther down underneath the covers and tucked himself in. He was about to drift off to sleep when his door made a cracking noise.

The sound of creaking wood made it clear someone was entering the room. Francis opened an eye while remaining calm as if nothing was bothering him, to see who was there. He opened them fully and sat up when the figure was clear.

"Arthur, what are you doing in my room?"

Looking away the Brit blushed, "I was bored. That's all."

Francis smiled softly, "You were lonely."

His comment made Arthur shoot a rather nasty glance, "Okay, okay, you weren't lonely…but you certainly wanted to be here with me."

Sighed the Englishman conceded, "I suppose that's fair enough."

Without a word or a gesture of an invite Arthur slipped into the bed next to Francis. He curled up the other, who was back in a sleeping position, head resting against a few fluffy pillows.

"You know, I realized something."

"What?" Francis's eyes were now shut and he was breathing calmly.

"You _do_ owe me forty-five years."

Francis opened his eyes and stared at his lover, "I don't think we'll live that long."

Arthur snuggled closer to the Frenchmen, burying his head into Francis's neck. He muttered quietly, "Then I guess we'll just have to go as far as we can."

Francis ran his fingers through the Brit's silver grey hair, "Arthur we're almost in our 70s, I'm surprised you even made it here."

Arthur pulled back shooting a glare at his companion.

The Frenchman gave a nervous smile, "Okay…maybe not you, since it IS you…but the average person rarely lasts this long."

The Londoner frowned, "We lasted."

"But for how much longer?"

Arthur snorted, "I thought I was supposed to be the pessimist. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I could die tomorrow and be just fine with that."

Francis blinked with curiosity, "Oh, why is that?"

"Because," Arthur buried himself back into the man he had waited patiently to be with again for nearly two thirds of his life. He hummed softly as Francis wrapped his arms around the Brit's waist while laying his head gently on top of the other's.

"I'm with you."

* * *

><p><strong>Historical Notes:<strong>

~Gonson really did die in 1765, but never became Attorney General, nor is it known that he ever tried to become that. He spent his life as Justice of the Peace and Chairman of the Quarter Sessions for Westminster. The Quarter Sessions refers to the courts at the Old Bailey – there were four held every year (which is something I changed in this story too…sorry).

~The American Revolution has its origins in the 1760s with the amalgamation of Canada into the British Empire. The Americans feared the French Canadians and were annoyed that the British were allowing them to keep their religion, culture and language. They demanded protection from the French. When the British said "Sure, but you have to pay for it…" the Americans again lashed out…they wanted protection, but they didn't want to pay for it… Everything from there kind of goes downhill…

~The Ironworks industry dates back to the late 18th century. The oldest ironworks mill in Wales, Cyfarthfa, dates to 1765.

~Canada fell to the British (English, Scots, Irish and Americans) in 1760, but was not fully integrated until 1763 when France finally signed the Treaty of Paris (1763). Acadia, another part of Canada (the Maritimes essentially), fell earlier in the 1750s.

~A "first cousin, twice removed" is the great-grandson of ones parent's sibling. OR in other words the "first cousin, twice removed" is Francis's father's sibling's (in this case elder sister) great-grandson.

~Jean-Jacque Rousseau was claimed to be a terrible parent by Voltaire and Edmund Burke because when his lover gave birth to their children (we know for sure of one son, but it is suggested there were three others) he convinced her to give them away to a foundling hospital (a shelter home created for children who had been abandoned).

~Yes, the French really did have a special "police" unit to ensure bread was high quality and did not go to waste. They also made sure that everyone got their fair share and that the price of bread didn't spiral out of control.

~madeleine cakes (1760s) & ice sorbets reached England in the 1760s.

~I'm sure we all know what smallpox is. It spread rapidly in the late 18th century and killed up to 400,000 Europeans per year. Both Czar Peter of Russia (1730) and French King Louis XV (1774) died from the disease. This particular scene is a shout out to KaiyoUchiha who gave me suggestions for an epilogue. I ended up taking my own route but I thought I'd give a bit of a tribute to her idea (even though it was Arthur who was supposed to be sick…sorry!)

**French Translation:**

~Un moment, si vous plait – One moment, please.

* * *

><p><strong>Random Fun Fact:<strong> Since we're all FrUk fans here I'd love to leave you with one totally funny "fun fact". Apparently, England thinks it/he created Champagne. Check out this article (every letter is spaced out): h t t p : / / m I n d s o r b e t . b l o g s p o t . c o m / 2 0 0 8 / 0 9 / g I v I n g – b I r t h – t o – c h a m p a g n e . h t m l (remember to change the big "I"'s to little ones).

**Random Fun Fact2:** There's a famous French food critic from the 17th century named Nicolas Bonnefon (does that surname not sound eerily similar to another Frenchman's whom we all love?) who's famous for revolutionizing not just French cuisine, but the way Europe as a whole ate.

**Random Fun Fact3:** Since I mentioned a similarity in Francis's name to history, I should throw out one about Arthur too. How about this? Apparently the legendary King Arthur is based off a prince from…wait for it…WALES! NOT ENGLAND! So in summury…King Arthur is Welsh, not English. (Wonders if she'll be blamed by English readers)  
>-Note: To be fair, in Arthur's time there really was no "England", "Wales", etc...it was just a collection of Celtic tribes...but still...I'm just gunna bug you guys about it anyway.<p>

**Random Fun Fact4:** One of the earliest Kings of England's name was "**Alfred** the Great"…he was known for being a terrible cook. XD Kind of makes you wonder if England had anything to do with the naming of America… I wonder if Alfred the Great's cakes were florescent too…? We certainly know they were burnt...lol!

**Random Fun Fact5:** Remember when I pointed out that one of the French prince's was thought to be gay (chapter 5)? Well, there have been a couple of English Kings who were rumoured to be homosexual as well including: Richard the Lion Heart (some contemporary historians claim he was homosexual, while others claim him to be bisexual – an even smaller number hypothesize he had a relationship with Philip II of France…hmmm…), Edward II (factually known to be one) and King James Stuart (who was sometimes referred to as "Queen James").

**ENDING THOUGHTS:** Thank you SOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much to everyone who read this story and reviewed it – even if you didn't review and read it all the way through I thank you! It's not often I get excited about a story to the point where I'm adding to it everyday and end up having the whole story completed in a month's time (not including the epilogue). I'm very proud of this story because of all the work I put into doing research for it and the dedication I had in writing it. Hopefully there will be more stories like this from me in the future!


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